Red Triangle - a GTA Fanfic

[slimeball supreme]

You're My Soldier

 

Looked in the mirror.

 

He’d been wearing hats. Was fine, since it was always brick the f*ck out in December, always had to wear skullies.

 

But the gash had scarred. Wound was festering. From the top of his eyebrow up past his hairline, would’ve needed stitches on a good day. But he didn’t get stitches at the police station. He got a bandage, got told to shut the f*ck up, got some cop mopping up blood from the back of a cop cruiser.

 

And now he was here. Scar was gnarly as f*ck.

 

Grabbed the durag off the sink. And he wore it to hide - wore it even though he shaved bald. Tied the strings and kept his eye on the scar to make sure it was hidden, and kept his eye on his eyes.

 

Stopped.

 

Stared.

 

Finished tying and got the Swingers fitted cap and left the bathroom and told his mom he was going out. And his mom said “Alright, honey,” and was in the middle of some other request when Latrell was already out the door down the cramped steps of the PJ towers.

 

Dull cackle-creak of the Hinterland boots pressing into the concrete. Hands sweeping prison-brick walls gleaming like laminate, like wax, big numbers sprayed on denoting floor-level. Descending past new paint-coats for covered graffiti and marker scratch with names and nicknames and nothings. A.9BG FK SLK, BALL UP FROG EATING, BOB, BOBBY P. PJ AK EBK, so on. Kids laughing on the second floor with one of the doors ajar and Bob Marley whistling out through the gap.

 

Then was out in the snow, and then whipped out the menthol Debonaires. Flicked out the stick and went searching.

 

Was looking for DB, and DB was looking for him.

 

Didn’t take long.

 

Red-brick Milden Houses sky-pointing on the way down to DB near the playgrounds past Van Benthen. Kid had earbuds in, absent-mindedly looking out and trotting nowhere, not as much looking for something as vaguely looking for anything. Skullie and three layers of hoodies: second layer purple, first blasting Los Santos Boars logos. Dreads poking out the hat, chewing his own face off anxious-like.

 

Latrell said “What’s poppin’, b?”

 

“Huh?” Eyes lit up and shut off on recognizing, “Nah, balla, it’s all good.”

 

“You been eatin’, son?”

 

“I do what I do. We walkin’?”

 

“Hop to it, son.”

 

Moved on past the playground, “We with the set. We goin’ banana man?” Was asking if they were gonna keep to codes. “I ain’t too keen with Bobby P, s’all I’m on.”

 

And Latrell smirked, and asked “Who the f*ck listening?”

 

DB hesitated.

 

Repeated, “C’mon son, who listening?”

 

“I got held up in a cell, son. Xavier’s where Xavier’s at. They got the Knotman gone. I got a visit from Teflon--”

 

“Don’t let the OGs scare you, zambaru.”

 

“What’s with this Balla sh*t? Since when the f*ck was you on that?”

 

Latrell put the cigarette out his mouth, “I’m just talkin’ how I talk.”

 

DB side-eyed sad-like and just murmured “A’ight, then.”

 

“You can’t shake that sh*t,” Latrell was going. “You grow up Ballin’, you die Ballin’. Don’t matter what the f*ck you wanna say you are afterwards, you gonna have purple in your blood until a nigga die. And sh*t, I might not f*ck with the OGs no more. Might not f*ck with A.9 Gangsters, might not f*ck with Bobby P. But I been with this sh*t long enough I know- you know what I’m saying?”

 

“I feel you, son.”

 

“I got love for you. Okay? Keep that sh*t straight.”

 

DB wasn’t keeping eye contact. “Okay.”

 

“Everything good at home, b?”

 

DB hesitated. Said “No.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“I got a call from my brother asking if was alright and sh*t, if I needed to talk.”

 

“What’s wrong with that?”

 

“My brother outta state,” DB went. “He got out. He went to Cheraw too, then came back, then went outta town. Asked if I was f*cking with the wrong niggas still.”

 

“You ain’t,” Latrell said. “I got nothing but love.”

 

“You say that,” DB sighed.

 

“It’s true.”

 

DB was looking forward out at the path, out the road, out the snow. Red brick buildings. “I’m gettin’ outta Liberty in February. January, maybe.”

 

Latrell stopped.

 

Twitched.

 

“I’m just--” DB was going on, but Latrell put a hand on his shoulder and gripped harder than he intended to.

 

DB stared.

 

“It’s Christmas in, like, four days, b,” Latrell said.

 

“I know.”

 

“When in February?”

 

“Sooner ‘n later. I mean- sh*t, the second. I don’t know. My grandma pissed off, son.”

 

“She find out you been to the cop shop?”

 

“Nobody found out nothin’, but you set ‘em off. Lyin’ and sh*t. She thinks you sell me crack or some sh*t, she asking why the f*ck some old ass bald motherf*cker come to the apartment and start finessing all this sh*t about black power and f*ckin’ Marcus Garvey and helping out at the rec center. Why I ain’t got no friends my age, why I hang out with triple-zero seven-thirty niggas.”

 

Scrambling over Latrell’s own thoughts, “I did- I mean, sh*t, I did--”

 

“I know what you did,” DB said. Stern, mature, “But if she sees you again she callin’ the f*cking jakes. And she sh*t-scared. She know I been up to sh*t, she know I f*ck with the set, so you know. I only got a couple weeks, man.”

 

Latrell was tapping his foot.

 

This really f*cked with his f*cking plans. His f*cking timeline.

 

Rubbed his face just muttering “Okay, okay.”

 

“I’m sorry,” DB said. Looked so f*cking sad.

 

“I wanted you on this thing,” Latrell said. “And it’s good money, you know what I’m sayin’, you can bring that sh*t to Cheraw- you can, you can--”

 

Sighed. “I don’t think I’m gonna bang no more,” DB said.

 

Twitched.

 

Tapped.

 

“Son,” Latrell was starting.

 

But DB cut him off, “I mean. I tried earning, with y’all. When I started Ballin’ I was doing what I could. You know I’m still YG, you know what the f*ck happened the other year with juvenile, you know that sh*t. But look where I been on the recent. I been f*cked.”

 

“You been cracking locks, motherf*cker.”

 

“Stop calling me that. I ain’t that. I go to the hall for a few months for a break-in don’t mean I’m the f*ckin’ break-in guy. I’m who I am.”

 

“The locks is metaphysical,” Latrell said. “They ain’t literal locks. You breaking boundaries, is what I’m saying.”

 

DB squinted. “Really?”

 

That was bullsh*t. “Sure,” Latrell said. “‘Cause you on this respect the B sh*t, and then you woke the f*ck up on what the scam was. What the taxes are, what shaking is, what happens when--”

 

“I’m just sick,” DB said. “I don’t wanna do nothing no more.”

 

“This ain’t even being shaked. This is what we was doing with Ramon,” Latrell was near-begging. “No taxes, no nothing--”

 

“Is that your only problem with the Ballas? Taxes?”

 

“No. I mean, taxes is f*ckin’ bullsh*t, son, let an entrepeneur do his own f*cking thing. Why the big sitting chiefs in this f*cking clique get all the cash a balla make even though they don’t do nothing, that’s some fa**ot-ass dick suckin’ bullsh*t.”

 

“I don’t care what the opportunity is. And with Ramon, that sh*t was f*cked up anyway. Why you gotta jump on every opportunity to make some f*ckin’ hay where they ain’t shaking--”

 

“Because I give a f*ck about you!” Latrell said. “Because you all that’s mattering. Because I do this sh*t for you, young balla, I do this sh*t for you.”

 

“I just think I’m done flagging. I’m done with this sh*t. I’m done banging, I don’t know. I seen too much--”

 

“You ain’t.”

 

DB squeaky, “I am.”

 

“You just in this rut, nigga, give it a week.”

 

“I’m giving it what I’m giving it. I just ain’t feel it no more. I’m done earning, done eating, done balling. I- just gon’ keep quiet, maybe, f*ckin--”

 

“No.”

 

“No?”

 

“No.”

 

“Latrell--”

 

“What I got is pure f*cking gold. And I don’t care if you too short sighted to see what the f*ck this is.”

 

“Man, f*ck you, L.”

 

“No. No. I ball for you--”

 

“I’m done with--”

 

Harder, “I ball the f*ck for you. So you gonna do this. Because I need another balla and you the only balla got, and it’s for your f*cking sake.”

 

“Get Noodles.”

 

“f*ck Noodles, and f*ck you if you think you getting your ass outta this sh*t because you too pussy to make some preen, bitch, that’s it. That’s an order, motherf*cker.”

 

“An order?”

 

“You heard the f*ck what I said, Delmar.”

 

And DB wasn’t sure what he was hearing.

 

But he was hearing it. “What the f*ck is your rank?”

 

DB didn’t know what to say. “Latrell--”

 

“What the f*ck is it? And what am I? You YG, I’m BG. That’s it. So I tell you to do something, nigga, you do it. That’s the rules.”

 

“f*ck the rules, I’m done balling--”

 

“Then the 5 star gotta hear about your sh*t with the fent and you tryna keep that sh*t away from the Ballas.”

 

DB stopped.

 

Eyes dropped. Color out his face. “What?”

 

“You come to me and say you ain’t tellin’ nobody.”

 

“You was in on that.”

 

“No. I ain’t done sh*t because we was never at no station.”

 

“We was, Latrell, we was, what the f*ck?!”

 

“You got proof?”

 

“Latrell, c’mon.”

 

“So you don’t do this sh*t for yourself and work on this sh*t with me, then that’s disobeying an order and that’s f*cking yourself and lying to Teflon and the generals.”

 

“You was right there, Latrell.”

 

“No I wasn’t, balla. You gonna back that sh*t up?”

 

“Latrell.”

 

“I got my word as a BG and you got dick. I’m your only saving grace in this world, Delly. You gonna f*ck me because you too stupid to see you’re f*cking yourself, I’m gonna make sure that sh*t literal.”

 

DB’s mouth just sort of hanging open. Like he was dead.

 

Like he was thinking, and he was searching for words, and he kept coming up short. So he just repeated, and repeated squeaky, “Latrell.”

 

“You doin’ this thing for us?”

 

“Latrell.”

 

“Are you?”

 

Blinked. DB blinked. DB blinked. And just said “Okay.”

 

“You don’t forget that you matter and matter so-the-f*ck hard I ain’t gonna let you waste an opportunity because you decided to play crab bitch nigga. That’s on you, D. You the only sh*t mattering and you ain’t even smart enough to recognize. Understand?”

 

DB didn’t say anything.

 

“I’m texting you the sh*t. The address. You come down and we keep this sh*t straight.”

 

DB didn’t say a word.

 

Latrell nodded, popped his lips, and walked the f*ck off.

 

DB didn’t say sh*t.

 

***

 

It was the next day and Latrell texted DB the meeting spot, but not for AnarKiss. AnarKiss was where L and the guys got together to figure out the details, and DB didn’t need to know that sh*t yet. Details had already been gathered a couple months back, on a little trip up to the docks with a fellow named Ramon, but that was ancient history. Whatever records he’d gotten had vanished a long time ago.

 

So they needed to do their own reconnaissance.

 

Phil had picked up Latrell in Frankie’s car. And Frank wouldn’t let Latrell drive his car, normally, but Latrell insisted on using his whip for the “space and style.” Translation: because he knew for a fact Frankie’s car was bugged. To make sure he caught anything anyone in the car said, he’d put on a wire and had the guys at the Disruption Team fit a mic into his hat. Latrell was double mic’d up, no problem.

 

And then when they got to DB, Phil and Latrell switched seats. And Latrell, motherf*cker, was f*cking driving. And Phil found the whole thing funny.

 

Titus was in the back watching the whole show and kind of chuckling to himself.

 

He was here because Frankie and Reuben decided they shouldn’t have to, and Kevin was at the pharmacy for his mother, and Titus was around and wanted to tag along besides. Had been on-and-off talking to his dad trying to mend the unmended, get Loopy to stop foaming from the f*cking mouth whenever he heard the word ‘Mazza’. Occasional trip to Astors, occasional phonecall, occasional message to ferry around to capo-on-capo or some bullsh*t Latrell wasn’t keeping up with. What you had to be sure of was that he’d been talking that Frankie was onto good money, and that meant whatever sh*t he’d gotten into with whoever and whatever happened there, it didn’t matter. The money mattered, and money was always green.

 

Or preen. Sure. Keep up with that cutesy Balla sh*t some more.

 

Xavier still hadn’t said a word while awaiting trial. So the only guys that knew what really went down with Spadina were the guys that did it. Them, and the Disruption Team.

 

DB said his hellos.

 

“This is my boy Delmar - DB - he’s been on this sh*t with me, we gonna keep this sh*t good. DB, this is my nigga Philly, and this is Titus.”

 

“Pleasure’s mine,” Phil extended a hand.

 

“Howya’ doin’.” Titus didn’t.

 

DB shook and kept the eyes going and you could see some sh*t creeping on his face. And he just said “Okay.”

 

They were going for a jaunt down half the borough. Weren’t exactly a group for much conversating. Placid sh*t, vapid small talk you could tell the guys didn’t give much a f*ck for. Latrell thinking of Noodles looking at the kid in the backseat bug-eyed like he weren’t sure what was going on.

 

Didn’t know where they were when Phil asked “So where you from, DB?”

 

DB kind of jerked up and eyed the passenger seat and didn’t really know what to say.

 

Latrell said “Around. He good.”

 

“One of your boys from the projects, Latrell?”

 

“Yeah,” DB said. “Sorta.”

 

“You one of them Ballas or whatever? Like L, right?”

 

DB repeated, “Sorta.”

 

“He’s who he be,” Latrell said.

 

“You don’t gotta be easy on it with us,” Philly said. “Come on. Your people is your people. Frankie got into this whole thing because he was reading up on this gang sh*t online, we know the score.”

 

“Oh, yeah,” Titus went. Didn’t say nothing else but you’d have to suppose that served some other purpose, like he weren’t a limp dick along for the ride.

 

“I do what I do,” DB said. “I’mma hit this and then we’ll see what I’m doing, I don’t know.”

 

Phil, “But you’re one of the Ballers or whatever?”

 

“Yeah. Sure.”

 

“How old are you, son?”

 

DB adjusted his waistband with his eyes locked on the headrest of the passenger. “I’m how old I be.”

 

“He’s 19,” Latrell said.

 

And Phil said “sh*t. Really?”

 

DB didn’t reply.

 

“Ain’t no shame in it,” Titus said.

 

“Ain’t no shame,” Phil said.

 

DB just said “Yeah.”

 

“And that gang sh*t neither,” Titus was going, “You done time? You gotta do what you do.”

 

Just muttered “Some time at juvy or whatever s’all.”

 

“I was f*cking sh*t up I was your age, too,” Philly went. “These kids from my neighborhood, wily f*cks like me. Gerry McReary, you know that name? I knew him.”

 

And Titus chuckled.

 

Philly said “What?”

 

“You sure you wanna brag about whatever that was?”

 

“We still f*cked around.”

 

“The McReary sh*t, that name don’t play. You think this kid even knows the surname? I mean, I say Gravelli, he knows that. You used to f*ck with Loopy too, right? On the occasions. I mean, that’s a name he’d probably give a sh*t about, right?”

 

“Loopy I only worked with a few times.”

 

DB asked “Loopy?”

 

“Okay,” Titus was going, “maybe not Loopy. Gravelli, though.”

 

“Sure,” DB said.

 

“Yeah, see? Gravelli - we got a Gravelli working with us. I knew Gravelli’s great-nephew, that’s the guy we’re working with. You might even meet the kid--”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah, sure.”

 

DB was still looking at the headrest, Titus was chill as-you-like with his arm out the open window riding the air. “Cool,” just said that.

 

“Yeah,” Titus said. “And I knew the man himself, I met him a couple times at cookouts. And, and- I knew his kid. I don’t judge nobody for this gang sh*t neither, what you guys do, because Jon Junior - that’s the kid - he’s doing time as long as the cops can do him for. And he hooked up with the Spanish Lords in the joint.”

 

DB frowned. “But he’s, y’know.”

 

“That sh*t don’t mean nothing inside. And sh*t, they let anyone in the Lords, too, he’s aces. Don’t matter he’s Italian, they got Italian Lords. Junior’s been inside… sh*t, since 2004… fifteen year sentence… my math ain’t good, Philly, when the f*ck is he out?”

 

Latrell’s first word in a while: “2019.” Wanted to see how far self-incrimination could go.

 

“There you go! 2019. But no, I visited him upstate and the guy’s got tattoos and everything. He ain’t even smoking crack no more, he says.”

 

Phil just laughed to himself.

 

Titus said “What?”

 

“This sh*t is all ridiculous.”

 

“Hey, I don’t judge,” Titus said. “What the f*ck was that one Lord’s name, the kid outta Botolph or whatever? He’s been better to Jon any of us ever-the-f*ck been, so I got no problem he wants to play Boricua.”

 

“That kid is a f*ckup.”

 

“I knew June a long time, he’s as much a f*ckup you are.” Turned back to DB, “It was Lord Portent, by the way. And I think his uncle was a Pavano so it was what it was.”

 

“You’re a f*ckup,” Phil said.

 

“Oh, am I?”

 

“Yeah, you are.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Why, you’re a f*cking cokehead like Junior is too. So I see your f*ckin’ sympahthy.”

 

“Hey, do we have a problem?”

 

“Just don’t sh*t talk me, you f*cking guinea motherf*ck--”

 

“Oh! What? Go f*ck yourself.”

 

Latrell said “Cool it.”

 

“I’m sorry, kid,” Phil was saying, “but this f*cking guy--”

 

“You wanna get racist,” Titus said, “be my guest you mick fa**ot.”

 

“You’d be heavyweight champion if you weren’t such a cokehead retard.”

 

“And Gerry McReary might not a’ done a few years you didn’t run out on him in ‘92--”

 

Phil was red in the face, “Get f*cked.”

 

And Titus was still f*cking smiling, “I ain’t scared of your sh*t, man.” Turned to DB who was f*cking wide-eye petrified, “Don’t mind the mick--”

 

“I ain’t scared of your father.”

 

“Who brought up my dad?”

 

“Prick piece of sh*t.”

 

“Phillip, Prince Phillip - who brought up my dad?”

 

DB half-whispering, barely holding together, “Your dad?”

 

“My dad is Loopy. Who brought up my dad, Phil?”

 

“You did. You did, f*cking earlier, you said more people knew--” deep breath, “you said, you said more people--”

 

“I said, I said, I said. You stutterin’, mutterin’, retarded--”

 

Latrell slapped the dash.

 

Everyone shut up.

 

And Latrell said to make sure, “Y’all gotta shut the f*ck up, son. Goddamn.”

 

“I’m sorry, Leland,” Titus said. “But this f*cking guy. I done--”

 

“Latrell.”

 

“Okay. I done boxing promos before, I’ve sh*t talked people, this guy is a f*cking amateur.”

 

“You’re a f*cking amateur.”

 

“Big man,” Titus laughed. “I gone in the ring with motherf*ckers got cocks like boulders, and Phil Irish who calls himself Jelly Phil thinks he can go toe-to-toe--”

 

“You, uh, you- you lookin’ at people’s dicks, and you lookin’ at their balls and sh*t--”

 

“Nice try, Phil.”

 

Muttering, “Betyournutsisallshriveledfromthesteroidsandsh*tf*ckinfa**otpieceash*t--”

 

And Titus just laughed it off.

 

They were somewhere on Munsee. Saw the Onondaga Station and kind of felt a shiver down his back going down, and looked to Phil and saw him just glaring out the window red-faced. They’d been passing MounteBank Center soon. A million ghosts haunting him in the borough. Maybe if they turned back around they’d pass the burger place on Munsee they trashed a Spanish Lord guy’s Cavalcade.

 

And Latrell just smirked. “Jon Gravelli, a bumblebee?”

 

Phil snickered at that. Titus just said “Yeah.”

 

“You done any time, Titus?”

 

“My dad’s in prison the rest of his life. I done a few on possession, nothing serious. And sh*t, he’s a bumblebee? You and the kid are Bruises or Sacks, right? That what Grove Street motherf*ckers call you?”

 

“We got the last laugh, and them Frog motherf*ckers got ate sh*t outta Davis. But that’s not our thing.”

 

“I got no disrespect for it. Another life I’d probably gotten into it.”

 

“You woulda’ been a Balla in another life?”

 

“I think I’da been the best goddamn motherf*cker to ever Ball or Fam, I’d make OG and be white.”

 

DB laughed a little.

 

“I ain’t even joking neither,” Titus was grinning, “First white boy OG in Davis.”

 

“This is Broker,” Latrell said.

 

“Broker, Davis. LS, LC. Whoever, wherever. Do they call it Famming like you call it Balling? Family-ing? What the f*ck that even mean?”

 

“They call it f*cking,” DB said.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah, they f*ck they homies. They f*ck every nigga they see, Families. They f*ck OGs, they f*ck YGs, they f*ck men--”

 

“Ah, I see,” laughing, “I see.”

 

“Yeah, but they don’t f*ck women so much, they don’t f*ck women.”

 

“Maybe I wouldn’t join the Families then, huh? ‘Cause me, I f*ck women. I don’t f*ck men, I ain’t like that.”

 

“Yeah,” DB laughed, “yeah. Me neither.”

 

Latrell was wondering what the DT guys would be thinking when they played these tapes back.

 

Was a straight shot down Munsee to East Hook and Champlain Street. Old Champlain Street, an old friend. Bandage on his head like the brain was poking out and pumping something fierce as the car was riding up the avenue and stop-starting at traffic lights. And bail bond places, and pickle trucks, and northern Broker pretty-facade apartment brownstones juice bar nothing f*ck you.

 

Green bridge. Where’d Latrell know that green bridge? It was where they parked Xavier’s Albany. Underpass of the Broker-Dukes Expressway, had this mural. They passed it. DB would’ve remembered.

 

Latrell did, too.

 

They’d asked him why he busted up his knee.

 

Turned onto Champlain.

 

Eased the car up a little with the dock crane in sight and started driving slow.

 

“We gonna park up with all the other cars?” That was Titus.

 

Latrell didn’t reply. Was just thinking.

 

PORT AUTHORITY OF LIBERTY CITY

LIBERTY MARINE TERMINALS

BROKER PORT AUTHORITY PIERS

ADMINISTRATION BUILDING

 

“Latrell?” DB.

 

“Huh?”

 

“What you thinking, b?”

 

Latrell remembered. “Stuff,” he repeated. “Businesses. Entry points. If we get inside the terminal at all, there’s this little spot I wanna check out.”

 

Titus squinted, “This the terminal?”

 

Phil said “Says right there.”

 

“Torpedo Imports. Fishy little spot, big ticket, has a few contracts with some warehouses from what I’ve Duplexed. Say they move alcohol and produce, whiskey ‘n vodka ‘n sh*t, but I’m just seeing a lot of names being repeated.”

 

DB stared.

 

Long pause.

 

Titus broke it, “Nobody really asked for the little spiel, but y’know... what’re you saying?”

 

Phil said “f*ck up, Titus. He put thought into this thing, you pay respect to it.”

 

“Okay, f*ck it. Kid’s being all cagey, then he comes up with that.”

 

And Latrell smirked. “It don’t matter, anyway. It’s all technical sh*t. We gotta keep going.” Was getting a ride outta this.

 

“What, it ain’t good enough for me or us or whoever?”

 

Latrell didn’t reply.

 

Was a minute or so, maybe. And they were on the corner of Champlain and Wayne Street again. Latrell pulled the car up, smirked harder. Eyed the fence, saw the LomBike station. Was looking for the gap in the fence.

 

Couldn’t find it.

 

“Latrell?”

 

Latrell turned back, “DB.”

 

“What is this? Why are you saying this?”

 

Latrell bit his tongue, completely ignored it. “Me and Jelly. We’re gonna do some reconnaissance. A’ight?”

 

Titus, “So who’s driving?”

 

“You. Okay? You, I need you driving, watch our backs.”

 

Philly chuckled. “I could do it. Frankie told me to drive, right?”

 

“No, need you for a reason. Titus, ride up the block--”

 

“How the f*ck am I watching your back if I ride up the goddamn block?”

 

“It- look, it doesn’t matter. Just you ride up the street, you turn right, you keep the car idling there. Okay? You and DB hit that, we’ll be up right with you. We’ll only be ten minutes, maybe.”

 

“Fine.”

 

“You see a big brick building, two floors, you stop around there. I ain’t remember the street name. Philly, come on.”

 

DB watching.

 

DB thinking.

 

Titus and Latrell switched seats. Phil got out.

 

DB stayed in the back.

 

The car rode off.

 

Latrell watched.

 

Phil was walking, “C’mon, dipsh*t.” Meant it playful.

 

Latrell followed.

 

They had hopped the knee high fence, barbed wire, into the knee high grass coiling around shoe soles, little patches of snow. Latrell was eyeing the big fence, looking for the hole. Couldn’t find it.

 

Phil was watching.

 

Latrell turned.

 

Phil looked at him.

 

“What?” Latrell said.

 

“The- uh…” Phil frowned. “The kid. Delmar, he was acting all, uh… what was that?”

 

Latrell sucked his cheek in. “Yeah. That’s what it is.”

 

“You know, I mean no offense, right? When I’m saying what I’m about to say. But I never had much of a respect for this green and purple gang bullsh*t. I just never saw much in it.”

 

Latrell knew that from the wiretap. “I grew out of it.”

 

“Did the kid? And he was- the way he was talking to you. What was that? You being all silent.”

 

Latrell turned back. Started looking for the hole again, walking up the fence. “You want the truth?”

 

“I always want the truth, bud.”

 

“I saw through that sh*t a long time ago. With the Ballas sh*t, the Families sh*t. It’s all a racket, nigga, it’s all taxes. All niggas trying to suck you dry like a vampire in this sh*t. I’m trying to help the kid see that. You feel me?”

 

“Okay.”

 

“That’s the sh*t, you feel me? He’s gonna be outta town by February, so I got this sh*t in to get him some paper before he flies out.”

 

“Where’s he going?”

 

“I forgot. Met the kid because he just got outta juvenile for cracking locks, so I always called him picklock. He’s got a head on his shoulders, he’s good for it.” Paused, tried to remember what Ramon said to him. Helped make the pause seem dramatic. “I knew kids who was banging purple when they nuts dropped all the way up ‘til they was thirty, son. Thirty-five. And they got dropped for it, because they put color before they dogs. This guy Xavier. This guy Knot. Lightyear. Because they didn’t listen to me. And they got popped because they didn’t listen to me.”

 

“Was that why?”

 

“Yeah, because they was dumb niggas. Me, I always tried to teach a balla sense. But you know. No prospects. They got done up, got they sh*t took, got they heads blast.”

 

Phil squinted. “Who was that guy who shot Spadina?”

 

“Noodles,” Latrell said. “Another sad motherf*cker. And he’s doing time and won’t say a word. Which I respect, but these niggas is lame.”

 

“Yeah.” Sighed, “I don’t know. I hope the kid is kosher, is all I’m hoping.”

 

“I’m out here with you because you my main dude, Phil. You the main motherf*cker who matters - not Frankie, not DB, not Titus. I f*cking hate that nigga Titus, was just talking back to me, f*ck that sh*t.”

 

“It’s your idea. Should respect you.”

 

“Exactly. But it’s because- I mean, he’s the kind of dude who’d call a nigga lazy, call a nigga stupid, say they deserve sh*t they don’t all behind they back. Racist as f*ck and pretend they aren’t. I know you ain’t like that, right?”

 

Phil squinted again. “I guess.”

 

“Yeah. Because you ain’t like that,” Latrell spat. “But Titus, maybe.”

 

“Titus ain’t- I mean, I don’t know. Don’t think he never had a problem with black guys.”

 

“Frankie then. I bet he drop the f*ckin’ n-word when a dude back turned. But I know you ain’t like that. Right?”

 

Could see discomfort creeping up on Phil’s face. “Yeah.”

 

Latrell couldn’t find the f*cking hole.

 

He was gonna f*cking flip if he couldn’t find that f*cking hole.

 

“I don’t trust the wops,” was getting down, lower. “I trust you, b, but I don’t trust the wops. And that’s why I’m- why I got you… out here.” Grit his teeth.

 

“What are you looking for?”

 

“I’m trying to level with you here, Jelly. Listen. I don’t trust- I mean, f*ck, listen- you the only guy who matters, okay?”

 

“You said that.”

 

“Because it’s true.”

 

“I know, kid. I mean--”

 

“Motherf*cker!”

 

“What?”

 

“There was a f*cking hole. Where the f*ck it at?”

 

“You come here before, Latrell?”

 

“Yeah. Sure, sorta. I had this f*cking thing on my phone and everything?” Swore the hole was here, “Where the f*ck, man?”

 

“It don’t matter, kid. We’ve seen what we need to see.”

 

“No, I had- f*ck, man, goddamn it.” On his f*cking knees, “Goddamn f*cking motherf*ckerf*cking F*CK f*cking F*CK man--”

 

“It ain’t nothing--”

 

“I swear. I swear. Goddamn it.”

 

Stopped looking.

 

Just collapsed into the dirt, jean knees dusty. Wet from mud-slick snow.

 

Pinched the bridge of his nose.

 

“Latrell?” Phil was down with him, hand on his shoulder, “You good?”

 

And Latrell stood up.

 

Stared.

 

Phil still down.

 

“Whatever,” Latrell said.

 

Got up, “Okay.”

 

“Man… yeah.”

 

“Kid, you good?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Beat.

 

“We go to the car?” Phil asked.

 

Beat.

 

Latrell nodded.

 

They walked.

 

Car was waiting on the corner a good few minutes away. And the skyline poking up from the chain-link.

 

Latrell laughed.

 

Latrell stopped.

 

Latrell walked.

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

Edited September 7, 2021 by slimeball supreme

[Ziggy455]

Hey, Slimeball, I've been meaning to ask--who are your biggest inspirations for your style? I'm getting real Elmore Leonard and Chandler vibes, maybe with a little bit of James Ellroy.

[slimeball supreme]

5 hours ago, Ziggy455 said:

Hey, Slimeball, I've been meaning to ask--who are your biggest inspirations for your style? I'm getting real Elmore Leonard and Chandler vibes, maybe with a little bit of James Ellroy.

Funnily enough I've actually never read Chandler but Leonard, McCarthy and Elroy have been big influences on my writing style. I've always been a big fan of Donald Goines and Clockers by Richard Price too on top of a bunch of places I've drawn from - including true crime (specifically Red Mafiya and stuff by Raab). Ofc The Wire and the Sopranos too but that's probably everyone else.

 

I think I've tried to unite, throughout everything I've written but especially here, a really punchy and mean and verbal kind of prose alongside these larger, detailed depictions of the criminal underworld. That was something I even liked about IV, how there's always this idea that there's something beyond the protagonist going down and everyone is subject to a thousand different rules and relationships - here it's no different. I have no idea if people are liking those subtleties, and I'm really happy you shot this little question at me, but there is a broad universe every character here is apart of. That whole idea where there's this cerebral, tunnel-vision style view from the protagonist while a million-piece chess game is being played out around them is central to RT

Edited February 23, 2021 by slimeball supreme

[Curtis]

Still going strong? You got great dedication. Keep at it. 

[slimeball supreme]

Last Shabbat

 

Kassian was happy the arm that got broke weren’t the one he used for smack.

 

That was half true. They’d broken his wrist and fractured his arm. Run of bad f*cking luck that was, but Kassian had never injected into a broken arm. Didn’t want to try. But he was lucky, at least, they f*cked up the wrong one.

 

It was Christmas tomorrow. They’d been putting up lights in Hove Beach, all over town. Eddie Guberman’s dealer - who Vadim had gone to for scag which Kaz bought off Vadim on account of Kaz’s dealer being short that week and his backup being out of town on vacation - he was rocking some novelty f*cking Christmas sh*t in his apartment and had the tree up and everything.

 

Weren’t a tree in Kassian’s apartment, and that was okay.

 

It was morning. He was bleaching his hair. Mucked-up and thick with bleach-goo sh*t while his other arm was pinned to his torso and Kaz was laughing at the comedy of it. And Abbot was strung-out on the sofa and his eyes were red and he was moving with the waves of the world. Sunday nodding off on the leather with CCC on and a leg off the davenport.

 

Scag-sex eye-f*cking everything like everything was good. Phone halfway on the coffee table plugged into a charger a mile off and Abbot was staring at it.

 

Staring at it.

 

Graphite slab stared back.

 

Sunday. 20th of December.

 

It was on silent, and it rang.

 

Staring at it.

 

Staring at Benny on the display.

 

And Abbot slumped off the sofa and grabbed it with the wrong hand and answered it sloppy going “Hello?”

 

“The cafe.”

 

“What?”

 

“Undersea. Now.”

 

He hung up.

 

Abbot blinked. Like there was a wall between his eyelids he was breaking apart. And he massaged his face with both hands and slid the phone into his jeans and looked for his jacket. Looked for his gloves, a hat, the gat. Subcompact two-tone Wilhelm pistol hidden by the bicycle that Abbot stuffed into his jacket with another magazine.

 

And he took the bike. And he said “I’m going,” and Kassian said bye still dyeing.

 

Ten minute ride. And needed to shake off the high. So he took the bike down the stairs past the parked up cars, past Kassian’s Fathom and the new-old Cavalcade that Kaz had said looked a lot like Yevdokim’s old whip that he’d give up to Benny for the sports bet debt, and Abbot grunted fighting the smack on the icy road.

 

He was riding down Wappinger Avenue after turning off the avenue. Riding down this part that went over the Baldric Parkway that was only two lanes - moved the cycle onto the sidewalk and nearly toppled on the curb f*cking with the black ice. Onto the intersection off Ferryman by that little park and his nose was all f*cked up congested-like with dribble-spit rolling down the philtrum and f*ck. Stopped the bike off the crosswalk when he’d nearly got run over by a gray Karin and had to keep going and woosh. Like nothing. Crossed over Iroquois. Two minutes later, was on Mohawk.

 

They’d put up the tinsel red-and-greens on the underside of the elevated train again. Old Russian ladies in big seasonal fur coats, but f*ck if they needed the excuse since they wore that sh*t in July.

 

Road still icy. Congested-like with a dozen cars and the bicycle skirting by the train-track support beams on the inside of the road. Subway cars screaming up above his head while his ears were still ringing and his eyes were click-clicking past a dozen neon cyrillics. Back on the sidewalk now, past construction by one of the subway entrances.

 

Stopped the bike.

 

Looked up at the sign for the Undersea Cafe. Looked to his left, and saw the white Enus. Window too frosted to get a good look inside. So Abbot leaned the bike on the window. Abbot leaned on the door. Abbot hesitated.

 

Abbot opened.

 

Hadn’t wondered who’d been driving in lieu of himself, but got the answer. Only people inside were Benny and Yulya. Yulya looked up from where she was sitting, a table by the door, nodded him in. Abbot nodded back.

 

Benny was rapping the table with his fingers and a teacup gone cold. Velvet red turtleneck and a brown jacket draped over the back of the chair. Glasses on the table. 

 

Eyes on him.

 

Abbot said “Yeah.”

 

“Sit down.”

 

Abbot put his hands on the other chair. Didn’t sit. Just stared and rubbed at his glasses, “What.” What like ‘what is this’, a what showing off the congested nose, the red.

 

Benny blinked.

 

Abbot looked.

 

“Sit down.”

 

And Abbot sighed, and Abbot threw up his arms, and Abbot sat down.

 

He was still high.

 

Benny couldn’t tell. Maybe. Or maybe he could? He wasn’t saying. Just staring.

 

Just rapping his fingers.

 

“I’m sick,” Abbot lied.

 

“You need to do something.”

 

“I know. What? Yeah.” Sniffle, “Y’know--”

 

“Hush.”

 

Abbot blinked.

 

“I need you--” he stopped himself. Breathed a little, “I need you to do something.”

 

“What?”

 

“We have problems.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Look, we… okay. This is from Kenny.”

 

Abbot blinked. Slower, “Okay.”

 

“We have problems.”

 

“...Yeah?”

 

Benny was blinking too fast. “We got word from a friend of ours. Kuzma got word. So this is legitimate. That the- well, okay. Okay, bozhe.”

 

“What.”

 

“We are going to get indictments.”

 

Abbot didn’t blink. “Okay.”

 

“We know who is going to get the indictments. And we know why. We know this, uh, this whole thing, this goes to what the preacher - mister man you do in - he’s going to, uh, he’s- he was already talking to police department about what he knew.”

 

“Just local?”
 

“Not exactly.”

 

“So federal?”

 

“FIB, maybe. But a lot of this is come from Revaz.”

 

Stopped. “Why?”

 

“Remember the chocolates?”

 

Squinted. “No.”

 

“Revaz had these chocolates. From Switzerland. And he didn’t vet the buyers for the chocolates. And one of them may have been undercover police, or they might have been talking to police. And something about this thing he does with the casinos in Venturas, with these card reading machines. And these other things, like Tamaz. You know Tamaz?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Tamaz they know has cocaine so they going to raid his apartment.”

 

“Did you tell Tamaz?”

 

“No.”

 

Abbot wasn’t blinking anymore. “Why?”

 

Benny was blinking too fast. “Because we need somebodies to go.”

 

Let that sink in.

 

God f*cking damn it.

 

Abbot asked “So Tamaz?”

 

“Tamaz. And Revaz. And we think maybe Pasha, too. Pasha they have connected to Revaz because of the mutual thing they have going with the dick pill doctor Yugo Churkin.”

 

“So they’re all going down?”

 

“We need someone to go down.”

 

“Are they- f*ck, are they gonna talk?”

 

“Yugo maybe. But he only has a few people he can talk about, that District Attorney care about. One of them is Pasha. One of them is Revaz. And then one of them is Teddy.”

 

Abbot involuntarily said “Motherf*cker.”

 

Benny blinked.

 

“So what?”

 

“Pasha won’t talk. And they’ll only get him on the pills and maybe for paperworks. With Revaz, you know, Revaz can’t talk.”

 

“Revaz can’t?”

 

“Security Enforcement don’t want nobody uh- and he has his kid. The NOOSE want someone to call a ring leader and he has his kid. His little kid Daniel, we make sure he don’t go down. And if Revaz decides to talk we are going to kill his son.”

 

Benny said that so plain it was like nothing at all.

 

“And Teddy?” Abbot asked.

 

He was looking out the window. Looking at the cars. Benny said it slow, “We don’t have anything on Blondie.”

 

“Wait--”

 

“Blondie has everything on us.”

 

“No--”

 

“He knows Achban, he knows me, he knows you, he knows Kuzma, he knows the Turk - he sent you to knock the Turk’s teet' in, yes?”

 

“What are you saying?”

 

No eye contact, “You know what I’m saying.”

 

“What about- uh, with Kassian--”

 

“Teddy doesn’t care if his son dies tomorrow. That’s nothing we can do. And Kassian isn’t in anyone else crosshair.”

 

“So--”

 

“Don’t.”

 

“I… okay.”

 

Benny looking at him. “We need a story to tell. Something for whoever is going to prosecute. And Revaz, you know. Revaz was always what he was. So Revaz goes down for this.”

 

“For…”

 

“Yes. That’s what Kuzma says the friend says to him. They put someone away for a murder charge and this becomes a maybe deportations of some sort.”

 

“Anyone else I know?”

 

Benny was still looking out the window. “Seva and Felix.”

 

Goddamn.

 

“Felix,” Benny said. “He’s a soldier. He’s done time before. He’s a good man. Won’t talk. Seva was talking.”

 

“About?”

 

“Nothing that mattered. But he was talking about something. I knew and Kenny didn’t. So to them, their informants or their CI or whatever the f*ck it is, he’s gone. But what really happened? That’s not their concern.”

 

“And so we’re telling a story that ain’t really happened?”

 

“As many as we can. And what you do, that’s whatever happens for what Revaz was boss of. The Revaz Devdariani Organization. They put that up in the press release. They’re going to round up as many people they can, we need to make sure they round up the right ones.”

 

Abbot was looking down at the table. “Expendable guys, right?”

 

“Pasha’ll do a single digit maximum. His son’s not on the list, so he won’t take a plea. Revaz gets life or he get sent back to Russia. Yugo and Tamaz double-digits. Felix isn’t expendable but he go down no matter what. And Teddy, he can’t go to the court.”

 

“And I gotta… yeah.”

 

“Nobody else knows.”

 

“And Revaz--”

 

“Him and Tamaz. They get charged.”

 

Abbot nodded. Rubbed at his nose and felt the gunk stream out and rubbed it with his glove. Looked up at Benny with red eyes. “I do it now?”

 

Benny nodded.

 

Was looking back to Yulya. And Yulya was looking at the door and out the window - knew she had her ears closed for whatever was being said.

 

Then to Benny.
 

Was still looking out the window.

 

And Abbot grabbed at the hem of his glove, pulled it up, and said “Okay.”

 

***

 

Abbot rode the bike up across the street.

 

Not next to it. On East 16th Street was this building for sale, right up next to the bus stop. Former offices maybe, across the street from a Lombank branch, brickfront gyro seller. Leaned the bike up against the glass and started walking with his hands in his jacket.

 

Past a Whiz retailer, past a gourmet, the sub shop. The criss-crossing wires above the busy street, the cars. Would have to account for the noise, for the activity, for the people.

 

He saw Teddy’s car parked out front. The BF Stromata near the tax center.

 

Saw the sign.

 

 

Yeah.

 

That f*cking misspelt name.

 

Curled his left arm around the back of his head to scratch behind his right ear looking long at the front, at a vending machine Teddy or someone mighta’ moved out from the store standing haphazard on the sidewalk.

 

Abbot crossed the street. Felt in his jacket. Felt in the pockets.

 

Opened the door.

 

Ding-a-ling bell.

 

They’d had the Republican debates a week ago, the people on the TV were still talking about it and could hear them bitching about Lyle Cleethorpes on and on, how he’d made Joe Lawton’s brother wet his pants onstage or some sh*t. Some f*cking nonsense, burbling out on that sh*tty CRT Teddy had by the cashier since the guy wasn’t at his station. Yellowed out lights like it was always hazy in here, always June.

 

Always June. Abbot rubbed at his nose, because Abbot was still kinda high. Couldn’t shake it.

 

“Hey?” Abbot let that ring out through the empty newsstand.

 

“Oh!” From somewhere in the back. “Abbot?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Abbot! Hello, hello, er- hold on--”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Abbot tugged at his gloves.

 

Teddy walked out the backroom the same as he always looked, shaved his moustache but that was it. Same apron. Square-jaw motherf*cker with this big smile on his face, chain poking out this fuzzy-ass red-blue sweater, “Abbot, huh?!”

 

“Long time.”

 

Had totally caught the old man off guard. “Long time, my god, let me see you--”

 

“Merry Christmas or, uh--” and Teddy hugging him a moment, “Happy f*cking Hanukkah or holidays or whatever...”

 

And it holding.

 

Holding.

 

Abbot said “Yeah.”

 

Teddy laughed a moment, let go. “Okay.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Wow. So good to see you.”

 

“Yeah--”

 

“What brings you, huh? What’s is up with you, huh, you here for some veschestva or nothing or--”

 

“No business.” Sniffled, “No business, well- sh*t, maybe business, uh, but--”

 

“Nothing?”

 

“No, no- just came to say hi, huh? You busy, you want help?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, help is good yeah, I is doing some of the cans, I move some of the, uh, the boxes with the stuff in thems--”

 

“I can do that.”

 

“They’re in the- we got the truck for this to come around the back with the construction site--”

 

“The noise bad?”

 

“No. But they come around with this stuff, you can help, come on--”

 

And he’d scurried off.

 

That conversation was like a shot to the f*cking knee. Jitterbug stutter like he was talking to Lawrence again. All manner of flashbacks.

 

Abbot followed.

 

Door to the office doubled as storage space, because there wasn't enough room on the ground floor of the building to get both. Was maybe a garage when Teddy bought the place - enough room for a van or two, that van space occupied by shelves and cardboard boxes. Teddy’s desk, same as it always was, facing the concrete wall where the chair sat. The screwed up paper piles, the landline phone. Teddy’d sit down at that desk and he’d be staring at the wall, and whatever schmuck took the other seat would be looking at Teddy in the shadow of box box box.

 

He stepped over an electrical cord.

 

“How’s things?” Abbot asked.

 

“Good, uh- here, uh--” Teddy already holding two boxes two-handed coming up, “--you get this--”

 

And Abbot pulled the top box off, and held the thing under his arm, and Teddy said “No!” and told him to hold the thing right so it didn’t shake the cans up. And Teddy lead on into the store.

 

“The cans are for this- uh, you stock--”

 

“Have you talked to Kassian recently?”

 

“Yeah, yeah.” Moved on, “Tomatoes and the corn- I don’t want to shake them up, maybe that doesn’t mean anythings but that’s not what I want to do. Maybe that’s superstitious or something, huh?” Chuckled to himself.

 

“Maybe.”

 

“I just don’t want to disturb it.” He’d opened the box, already moved off a little, just muttering to himself. “Man.”

 

“Man?”

 

Teddy was smiling again. “It’s great to see you. I haven’t heard much from the other guys, just Peter. And Pavel, too, but that’s whoever. Some of the guys at the bathhouse.”

 

“Didn’t expect,” Abbot went, was sorting through the canned corn for the shelving, “to hear you were gonna be working on Shabbat.”

 

“I always work Shabbat.”

 

“Kassian said--”

 

“I always work Shabbat, Abbot. You work Shabbat, I work Shabbat.”

 

“I’m not religious.”

 

“Hey,” was still putting the cans up, “neither am I. What can you do? Enough sh*t in the world. I work Shabbat, I work holidays. I work in Merry Christmas, I work in Merry Hanukkah. Somebody’s gotta work.”

 

“True.”

 

“Kassian say I don’t work Shabbat?”

 

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

 

“You been talking to Kassian a lot recently?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Have you? He been coming around the store?” Was no point asking, Kassian had stopped coming around so much since he tried selling the oxy to the guys on Double E.

 

“Sure,” Teddy said, and Abbot knew that was a lie. “Same as always.”

 

“That’s good.”

 

“These things in the Ukraine have been f*cking me out,” Teddy said. Whip crack subject change, “Make you sick. I haven’t been back in, I don’t even know, but it gives you the f*cking willies, no?”

 

“What part?”

 

“It’s like Nazi Germany. I don’t know. I can’t talk to Pasha about it because Pasha gets all sh*tty about Ukraine. Peter, Georgian. You know how it is.”

 

Abbot didn’t. “Yeah.”

 

“And they burn down the temples and everything, like f*cking Nazis. What’s wrong with you, you nose is all red, you not doing nothing, you okay?”

 

“Huh?”

 

Teddy repeated, “You okay?”

 

And Abbot rubbed his nose and realized he was just standing there.

 

Blinked.

 

“Yeah,” Abbot said. “I got a cold.”

 

“You aren’t going to give it to me, are you?” He’d asked that seriously.

 

“No, no. Don’t worry about that. It’s fine.”

 

“I don’t want to get sick.”

 

“It’s fine.”

 

“Or you get it on any of the food and then--”

 

“It’s canned, Teddy--”

 

“I mean the others stuff, like if you get it on some fruit or some vegetables, why didn’t you tell me this?”

 

“I’m fine, Teddy, really.”

 

“Okay.” He hadn’t looked at Abbot once. Almost done stocking.

 

“You got any other employees here?”

 

“I don’t need other employees. I got Kassian, I got Daniel, Vadim, I have you. And you no get paid for this, but other stuff, perfect. But this Nazi sh*t, it gets on my f*cking nerves with Pasha, he such a f*cking sh*t. And his son Tsezar, f*cking idiot. Can’t have no conversation with Tsezar.”

 

“Yeah.” Abbot was done with his box. Just waiting on Teddy.

 

“You met him?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You seen him in a while?”

 

“No.”

 

“Okay. Okay.”

 

Kept stocking.

 

Abbot blinked.

 

“Okay,” Ted said. “Come on, I have some more.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Yeah as in yes or yeah as in no? I always say this sh*t to Kassian, I always say it, talk serious. This bullsh*t. Come on with me, huh?”

 

Abbot was crouching a minute. Staring off. “Okay.”

 

Teddy waddled off.

 

Abbot felt his jacket.

 

Watched Teddy. Fedir. Feygin.

 

Blinked. Sniffed. “I wanted to,” Abbot stutter-started, “uh, well--”

 

“Hm?” Turned around in the hallway.

 

“I wanted to, actually, to talk to you about something.”

 

And Teddy shrugged, laughed, smiled. “Well, what? Come on.”

 

Abbot followed, “You know I’ve been with Benny these past few months, right?”

 

He got a nod back.

 

“Yeah,” Abbot said. “It’s a real trip.”

 

“I haven’t spoken to him in a while. Is he okay?”

 

“He’s Benny.” Abbot took a seat.

 

And Teddy was halfway to get another box when he saw Abbot sitting, and his face kind of screwed up, and said “Didn’t know it was break time, huh?”

 

Abbot did something with his hands, like a “y’know” gesture. “My union allocated break.”

 

Which got a chuckle back. “Cheeky f*ck, I always thought that was a good thing with you. Because even Kassian, even everyone, always barumph-barumph bullsh*t. You know what I mean?”

 

“You asked how Benny was, sh*t, that’s Benny.”

 

Teddy chuckled again.

 

Abbot muttered “Yeah.”

 

“So what is it, then? Is Benny wanting something?”

 

“Sure,” Abbot said. Was pulling at the hem of his gloves again. Straightened out his glasses, “You know the produce up at the port?”

 

Those words made Teddy’s face harden. “Yeah?”

 

“The legit stuff. Not the stuff stuff. The bananas or whatever.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“You get your stuff from there?”

 

“I get it from Gennady Roitman and he gets it from there, sure. What, is this serious?”

 

“Well, it’s in relation to that.”

 

Teddy crossed his arms. “Then Gennady or Vanya would’ve told me.”

 

“No, no, I mean…” Abbot felt in his jacket again. “Sort of. It’s in, sort of, relation to that.”

 

Frowning harder. “Okay.”

 

“The NOOSE guys. They had some guys who weren’t on us--”

 

“NOOSE?”

 

“Yeah, PIA.”

 

“Is this about drugs?”

 

“Sort of. It’s about--”

 

“PIA is immigration, Abbot, they don’t do drugs.”

 

“I know. It was Security Enforcement. They were doing something. And it wasn’t our boat, and it wasn’t even in East Hook, it was in Guernsey. It was at Port Tudor. But they opened up one--”

 

“Is it something to do with that preacher guy on the TV?”

 

“Maybe.” Abbot sniffed, “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

 

“So what?”

 

“So there were some girls in a container. Some girls from, like, Colombia or Mexico. And NOOSE are getting all f*cky about it.”

 

“Abbot, this is--”

 

“Big?”

 

“No, I mean, I would know. Benny would’ve said.”

 

“I’m saying it on his behalf.”

 

“No, I mean if this was big enough deal for us- and I’m sure we can grease palms anyway, but Benny would’ve gotten the lieutenants, it wouldn’t be anything.”

 

“It’s a security thing.”

 

“I know,” he was frowning hard as you f*cking could, “that’s what I’m saying.”

 

“Are you calling me a liar?”

 

“No, Abbot, I’m just--”

 

“Okay.” Abbot was crossing his arms too, “Good.”

 

“I just saying that I don’t know about this. Benny told you?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Benny would do Felix to say this, maybe.”

 

“It was Benny.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“You don’t believe me, Teddy, you can call him right now, he’ll back me up.”

 

Teddy scratched his chin.

 

Abbot didn’t break eye contact.

 

“Sure,” Teddy said.

 

Got a nod back.

 

Teddy walked over and leaned on the desk with his back to Abbot. Picked the corded phone up and started pecking on the keypad breathing out the side of his mouth.

 

Abbot got up.

 

Slow.

 

Side-stepped past.

 

“I don’t know if he’ll be there now,” Abbot said. “But leave him a message maybe, even.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Unzipped his jacket, “Because I don’t know. I mean, maybe I’m getting the wrong info, maybe.”

 

“It’s okay,” Teddy said. “I’m not worrying.”

 

Pulled the ear plugs out his pocket. “That’s good. Because, you know--”

 

“It’s okay, Abbot.”

 

One in. “I hope so.” Two in.

 

Teddy said something. Had the ear to his phone’s receiver now.

 

Abbot pulled the Wilhelm pistol out his waistband. Just said “Sure.”

 

Teddy said something.

 

Abbot aimed. Abbot said “Sure.”

 

Teddy said something.

 

Abbot said “Be easy.”

 

Teddy turned.

 

Abbot fired.

 

Or did Teddy turn, and did Abbot fire?

 

Teddy fell.

 

He’d held the pistol one-handed aiming at the back of his head. And then it was his face. Didn’t hold the gat steady and the recoil jolted but Teddy went down like a doll. Arm swept the table and knocked the landline phone off and got his shoe caught in the wire running across the room. Wire got caught on the desk, Teddy collapsed into the shelf behind it knocking his head on the boxes.

 

Teddy was f*cking screaming.

 

Abbot could hear it.

 

Teddy was f*cking screaming.

 

Teddy’s jaw had popped off like it was nothing. Like it was porcelain, this bone lying right by him with his mouth agape and sticky red pouring out like he’d punctured a tank. A stream pouring down the neck, down the shirt, down the apron, f*cking screaming.

 

Abbot said “No.”

 

Stepped over.

 

Abbot said “Please.”

 

Teddy was screaming.

 

Abbot aimed again.

 

Teddy flinched.

 

Abbot fired.

 

Teddy was f*cking screaming.

 

Teddy’d put his hand up and his fingers went. Shot hit him in the hand, right in the hand, blew it to sh*t now grabbing at his wrist with the other hand screaming. Teddy was kicking the table, kicking his leg through the cord, kicking at Abbot. Teddy was f*cking screaming.

 

Abbot said “Stop.”

 

Teddy was f*cking screaming.

 

“Stop it, please, stop it.”

 

Teddy was f*cking screaming.

 

“Stop f*cking screaming, please!”

 

Teddy was f*cking screaming.

 

Abbot fired.

 

Abbot fired.

 

Abbot fired.

 

He’d shot him in the forehead twice.

 

He wasn’t moving.

 

Abbot stepped back.

 

Abbot stumbled on the cord. Tripped into the desk Teddy’d given him the delivery in June, dislodged the drawers and his ears were still ringing with the ear plugs in. Tossed them out, threw the plugs while eyes were locked on the dead man. And he got off his ass staring at him on his hands on his feet and he was running. Abbot was running, almost ran into the shelf and past the TV and out the door. Ran onto the street, past Teddy’s f*cking BF, and Abbot underarm tossed the f*cking gun into the drain and kept running.

 

Down the street.

 

Down the street.

 

He was gone.

 

***

 

Abbot woke up.

 

Abbot was in bed. Was naked, had the blanket wrapped around his leg staring at the ceiling blinking through it.

 

Blue pinstripe wallpaper through the darkness and the blur. Kassian’s room.

 

He’d been tensing up his hand and hadn’t realized. Sat himself up and squinted.

 

And the door was open.

 

And there was a silhouette.

 

Kassian with his arm in the cast pinned to his chest, shirtless, ribcage bone playing patterns with the shadow and the light from the stairway. He was holding something with the free hand, leaning on the doorframe.

 

Abbot said “Hey.” Repeated, “Hey.”

 

Kaz nodded. “Merry Christmas.”

 

Abbot squinted. Didn’t know where his glasses were. “Yeah.”

 

Nothing.

 

Nothing.

 

“Abbot,” Kassian said.

 

Abbot blinked. “Yeah?”

 

Could make out Kassian nodding. Putting the free hand up to his face, then back down.

 

Abbot said “What? What time is it?”

 

Silence.

 

“My dad is dead,” Kassian said.

 

Silence.

 

“Oh,” Abbot went.

 

“Yeah,” Kassian said.

 

They didn’t say anything a while.

 

Kaz stopped leaning.

 

And Kaz came closer.

 

And the details came through. They sharpened through a sea of swimming nothing, and Kaz came right up close.

 

And Kassian Feygin was smiling.

 

“I’m sorry,” Abbot said.

 

“I don’t need condolences,” Kassian replied. “He’s gone.”

 

“Yeah,” Abbot said.

 

“He’s f*cking gone.” And he was grinning. He shook his head, “He’s f*cking gone.”

 

And Kassian offered Abbot the needle.

 

And they got high at four in the morning.

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

 

Edited May 19, 2023 by slimeball supreme

[slimeball supreme]

Men of Many Leashes

 

The car drove off.

 

Minutes of silence, of dull silence, of crackle-pop silence of the recorder and the sound of the engine and the nothing-nowhere of the outside.

 

Could hear Titus chuckle, or maybe make some kind of instinctual sort of twitch-noise like he did it automatic. And he said “You a good friend of Latrell, then?”

 

DB was kinda caught off guard. “Yeah.”

 

“How long?”

 

“I- you know, I been… nahmsayin’, I been- uh… yeah, a while. You know.”

 

“He been around the towers?”

 

“Always, son. Yeah. Always, with Latrell.”

 

“And he’s good?”

 

DB kind of paused.

 

Long pause.

 

Titus kind of laughed, out of the awkwardness of it. Moved on, “How you met?”

 

“I’unno.”

 

“C’mon.”

 

“How you met Latrell?”

 

Got a ‘hmph’. “Few months back. Kid walks into the tattoo parlor--”

 

“The tattoo parlor?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“What tattoo parlor?”

 

“Rodney runs this thing--”

 

“Who?”

 

“Oh. Right, Rodney- Rodney’s this- uh, he’s the grand-nephew. Of Gravelli. It’s Rodney Gravelli. Rodney runs this tattoo parlor, in Dukes. And Latrell met us there. All of us hang out there, or uh, some of us. I go there because me and Rod, we go way back. I’m talking sh*t, I’m hanging out, the guy walks in and says what’s up. Because he’s for Frankie.”

 

“Ah.” Latrell didn’t remember if DB knew who Frankie was. “Okay.”

 

“So, your turn.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Your turn. How’d you meet the guy? He get you into the whole thing?”

 

DB kinda muttering, “What thing- what thing?”

 

“The Ballas.”

 

“No.”

 

“So, what?”

 

“S’uh- uh… okay. My cousin this one nigga, know what I’m saying. And- and- no wait, no. Okay. I grew up in East Liberty, okay?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“I got into ballin’ ‘cause Ballas was ballin’ out the houses. That’s what it was, son. That’s what it was- I mean, sh*t looked cool as f*ck. And I got this guy I know, his name is Noodles.”

 

“Noodles? Like what? Beef and broccoli f*ckin’ chow mein f*ckin’ Noodles?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Was he Chinese?”

 

“Noodles still around.”

 

“Is he Chinese?”

 

“Nah, son, his name is Noland. Jamal Noland.”

 

“Okay. And what?”

 

“I mean, he was a couple years older than me, but he was cool. I mean, and we was- I mean I knew a bunch of guys around the houses. And they say they got this one dude in one the apartments on the block, on one the blocks, he- I mean we was gonna catch the nigga in a gaffle he was acting the f*ck up, he was posted up with all kinds of sh*t, you already know--”

 

“What?”

 

“This dude got, like, he got this fly ass motherf*ckin’ car out the front, and I got Noodles telling me he got mad kinds of sh*t in his house. And he’d come around the projects to deal on Balla watch, but he weren’t a Balla. And he was mad dumb.”

 

“So what, this guy’s a drug dealer?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Did Latrell help?”

 

“No, Latrell- uh, I- it was me by myself because Noodles was hyping me up. And I thought, f*ck it, I can hit this dude, I can f*ck his sh*t up. And I head out around the back and I try picking the lock. And then the neighbors saw me, and then an alarm go off, and then I got the police on me and- I mean. Yeah. I got busted. And Latrell picked me up because that’s what one the OGs said.”

 

This little pause. Titus taking it in. “So what is he?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“What?”

 

“I don’t know. I mean- he, uh, he got me tight. I don’t know. He, uh- Slip weren’t out the pen yet--”

 

“Slip?”

 

“Slip the OG. But the guy I tried robbing, he never found out. So that was fine. He got killed, actually, like, a f*ckin’ few months later- I was still in juvy.”

 

“Who did it?”

 

Latrell stopped the tape.

 

Latrell rewound.

 

“Always, son. Yeah. Always, with Latrell.”

 

“And he’s good?”

 

DB kind of paused.

 

Long pause.

 

Titus kind of laughed, out of the awkwardness of it.

 

Latrell stopped the tape.

 

Latrell fast-forwarded.

 

“So what is he?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“What?”

 

“I don’t know. I mean- he, uh, he got me tight. I don’t know. He, uh- Slip weren’t out the pen yet--”

 

“Slip?”

 

Latrell stopped the tape.

 

Latrell rewound.

 

“Always, son. Yeah. Always, with Latrell.”

 

“And he’s good?”

 

DB kind of paused.

 

Long p--

 

“The f*ck are you doing?”

 

Latrell stopped the tape.

 

“I told him he could hear it if he wanted to,” Shane said. “He wanted to.”

 

Grant, shadow in the doorway, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said “Yeah?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“And--”

 

“And what? And what, you want him supervised? I’m right here.”

 

“That’s tampering with evidence or some sh*t.”

 

“Like you give a f*ck. Go to OCB with that sh*t, stick it up your drippin’ f*ckin’ pussy.”

 

“Yeah… okay, yeah. We let the CI play with the toys--”

 

“That’s right, we let him play with the toys. You wanna throw up sh*t for breaking rules then you’re talking to the wrong guy and speaking from the wrong friggin’ mouth is all I’m saying.”

 

“Where’s Jake?”

 

Shane leaned back on his chair, “Other room. We’re taking the kid to see the Bureau boys, the downtown motherf*ckers. He’s on Dez, you want to speak to him.”

 

Looked at Latrell, “He’s coming?”

 

“Yeah, Grant.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Get our stories straight. And sh*t, you remember Chris Perez? Dumb spic? I been talking to him about this whole thing, we share some notes, all peaches and dreams.”

 

“Cream,” Latrell added.

 

“Shut the f*ck up,” Shane added.

 

Grant adjusted his jacket - cargo coat - and shot his cuffs before saying “Screw it.”

 

“Oh yeah?”

 

“Yeah. Have fun with your monkey, man.”

 

“Yeah, will do, brother.” Tipped a nonexistent hat and let Big Grant soldier on.

 

Latrell watched the door.

 

Looked back at Shane, back reading that book. The Big One, by Hugh Welsh. Scratching at the chin stubble and licking a thumb and flipping the page.

 

Latrell tapped his foot.

 

Pressed play.

 

--ause.

 

Titus kind of laughed, out of the awkwardness of it. Moved on, “How you met?”

 

“I’unno.”

 

“C’mon.”

 

“How you met Latrell?”

 

“What about you, buddy, you having fun?”

 

Latrell didn’t reply. “Want a smoke.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“No smoking, cugine.” Looked up a little from the page with hyena eyes, “That’s department regulations.” Was probably a lie.

 

“--uh, he’s the grand-nephew. Of Gravelli. It’s Rodney Gravelli. Rodney runs this tattoo parlor, in Dukes. And Latrell met us there. All of us hang out there, or uh, some of us. I go there beca--”

 

Stopped the tape. “We gotta trim a lot of this, son,” Latrell said.

 

“Do we?”

 

“My name’s in the sh*t.”

 

“You the boss of that now? What we give and don’t give the prosecutors, you gonna be up there saying who does what does why, Fido?”

 

“You said I didn’t have to testify.”

 

“Oh yeah?”

 

“Yeah, son, so I’m just saying, they got my name in the sh*t, you know, I’m f*cked--”

 

“Okay.”

 

“--or confidential testimony, you said.”

 

“Yeah, sure. None of this is getting used, it’s all nonsense except the sh*t with Rodney. But we do this all the time. We just f*ck with the recording a little or edit in some static or something so the name gets concealed. Real IAA sh*t, you ain’t got nothin’ to worry about.”

 

“And that’s legal?”

 

Shane flipped a page it was clear he hadn’t read. “No.”

 

“A’ight.”

 

“You care about that sh*t?”

 

“I guess not.”

 

“So do you care or not?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Do you care if your name is in the f*cking recording, cueball?”

 

“I do, but--”

 

“So you do care!” Put the book down and folded his arms, “Is that what I’m hearing?”

 

“I just care about that and not the other sh*t, you know what I’m sayin’, that’s all.”

 

“Uh huh, okay. Whatever you say, cuey.” Bemused little grin on his face.

 

Latrell stared.

 

Blank face.

 

Blinked.

 

Shane’s grin faded.

 

Latrell stared.

 

Blinked.

 

Shane got his book again and--

 

“Who’s Denny?”

 

Squinted. “What?” Shane asked.

 

Latrell repeated, “Who’s Denny, I asked.”

 

Shane was staring now.

 

“They keep saying his name,” went on. “Dennis. He’s inside. That’s all.”

 

“You don’t know?”

 

“No.”

 

“Actually?”

 

“I don’t.”

 

Shane smiled.

 

Chuckled.

 

Laughed.

 

Hyena cackled so hard he put the book down and wiped his eye, “Oh, man. Wow.”

 

“What?”

 

“That’s the- he’s the whole f*ckin’ reason they even called you. Come on! You don’t f*cking know?”

 

Latrell didn’t react. Just tapped his foot. Just “No.”

 

“Jesus f*ck, okay… uh, Mondello. Dennis Mondello. He used to be in their whole little thing with Frankie and Reuben and them all. Doper. I mean, they never gave a sh*t about Astors, right, only the detention center in Sunrise. Because that’s where Denny is, on his grand larceny beef, and they want to call him on the cellphone. And, they want to get him dope.”

 

“Like heroin?”

 

“Like pot. Like, he’s a pothead. But yeah, heroin too, sure.”

 

Latrell just squinted, “You can’t get addicted to no pot, son.”

 

“He’s a f*cking pothead.”

 

“But he ain’t an addict.”

 

“He’s a- he’s a f*ckin’ bum, and they just wanted to get some stuff to their friend. Smuggle an eXsorbeo into the f*ckin’ jail they woulda’ wanted. And he got the full 15 so he ain’t gettin’ out no time soon, so it’s even more retarded. Probably already been moved out the MDC somewheres, they only keep guys there on the short term. I thought you knew that.”

 

“Just knew Denny was in prison, b, was all I knew.”

 

“Just- pfft. Just knew yuz’ was being strung along, was what you knew.”

 

Latrell didn’t reply.

 

“They didn’t think it through. Didn’t care to. Lost their interest and moved theirselves on to whatever was next, with them Messinas. And then this, and then that. Always the same with these losers, always trying to make a buck. Smash parking meters for f*ckin’ dimes and pennies.”

 

Latrell didn’t reply.

 

“Oh. But that’ll be something you tell our boy Chris Perez, huh? His unit. They’ll f*cking love you. ‘Cueball the Retard’. We run that by the Horn and see if we can put that on Page 6. Put that on the court transcript instead of Latrell Palmer, you want your name taken off so bad.”

 

Latrell didn’t reply.

 

“I detest you. You are a sad, rotten motherf*cker. If you weren’t worth CI I’d have strung you out and told those Baller punks youse was feeding us info from the start so they could carve you up like a roast, rape your mother, all that sh*t. And you’d deserve it. Because what you are, cueball, is you are clueless. You think youse clued in but you have no idea.”

 

Latrell didn’t reply.

 

“You don’t even know their surnames, do you?”

 

“Mazza,” Latrell said. “Procida.”

 

“Bravo. You on the wiretaps sucking off their piddy little cugine dicks, I’m glad you know their f*cking names at least. So you can repeat ‘em back to us for us, so you don’t f*ck that up like you f*cked everything else up.”

 

“Man, would you--”

 

“Shut up. I didn’t ask you to speak. You don’t even know Dennis Mondello, and he’s their best friend. You don’t know what family they’re with until a few we--”

 

“Shane.”

 

Shane stopped.

 

Turned to Jake.

 

Jake said it again, “Shane.”

 

“What?”

 

“You’re scaring the sh*t outta’ him.”

 

Shane snorted. “You good?”

 

“Dez and Peshy got me some of the notes,” held up a few folded pieces of paper in his right hand. “Pezeshkifar was saying they had some stuff they wanted to run by cueball. I’m just hoping you ain’t scared him out of it.”

 

“You ask him.”

 

Jake turned to Latrell, “He scared you out of it?”

 

Latrell didn’t reply.

 

Looked to Jake.

 

“I’ll do whatever you dudes want, son. I’m yours.”

 

***

 

They didn’t cross the bridge.

 

In fact, they weren’t going near it.

 

They’d picked up Latrell earlier that day and taken him to the same East Island nowhere-land The Precinct seemingly resided; that sort of suburbia that’s so interchangeable it could switch appearances even if you were paying attention. Latrell wasn’t, and wasn’t gonna try, because there wasn’t a point.

 

But when they got on the Baldric Parkway, they didn’t turn near Francis International onto Milden Boulevard. Milden would’ve meant crossing the borough westward, crossing over to Algonquin.

 

But they rode past Salmond City, and it was when they’d hit Maschapi Latrell decided to ask.

 

“We aren’t going to Algonquin?”

 

Jake snort-laughed. “No.”

 

Didn’t respond.

 

Jake was tap-tapping the steering wheel while they were listening to WSOS 2000 bulletins low-as-can-be. Quiet. No words.

 

They were over water, over snow-capped dead trees and the low-lying upper-classes in Hansen Basin.

 

Latrell asked “Why aren’t we going to Algonquin?”

 

Shane turned over the passenger seat with his hand pressed on the console. Sneered, “Can I ask you something, Wittgenstein?”

 

“What?”

 

“Let me ask you something.”

 

Latrell twitched. “Okay.”

 

“So, we’ve got a confidential informant. Right?”

 

“Me?”

 

“This is a hypothetical, cueball. We’ve got a confidential informant - one who could be in serious dangers to themselves if they was seen in the presence of a police officer. Right?”

 

“...Okay.”

 

“Okay. So. Lets say we’ve got ourselves sloppy, and we’ve got someone wise we’re cops. So they decide to track our CI in the car to see where he goes. And he just so happens to go Directorate Plaza, and he just so happens to get led into the big skyscraper the Federal Investigation Bureau got all their guys. Right?”

 

Shane was chuckling. Latrell just said “Okay.”

 

“What the f*ck is the tail gonna think?”

 

Latrell smirked. “He’s getting a sandwich.”

 

You could see him gripping the console harder. “You think you’re f*cking funny?”

 

Latrell stopped smirking.

 

“Cueball, you think you’re a f*cking comedian?”

 

“Sorry.”

 

Jake said “He thinks this is Split Sides” out the corner of his mouth.

 

“How do I know,” Shane said, “you ain’t been f*cking with us on any of the other sh*t, too? That this sh*t is too serious for you, cueball?”

 

“Because it is f*cking serious, Latrell.”

 

“You slack the f*ck off and act like a retard, Latrell, then I can air your goofy f*cking ass and burn you right now.”

 

“Haha.”

 

“You think that’s funny, Jake?”

 

“I think it’s f*cking hysterical, man.”

 

“You want to make a f*cking joke, Latrell, then we’ll make sure this sh*t gets real funny. They can put it in the comedy papers, or on the TV or whatever, right? ‘Dumb coon thrown off the project roof naked makes a cute print on the pavement’. That’d make a good skit for- who was the goofy motherf*cker’s name?”

 

“What?” asked Jake.

 

“The guy who used to do Split Sides, the black one, he got arrested all those times?”

 

“Dave Chapelle?”

 

“No. Katt Williams! Katt Williams, he could make a joke outta that.”

 

“Is Katt Williams still funny?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“Latrell. Is Katt Williams still funny?”

 

Latrell didn’t reply.

 

Shane was searing those jackal eyes into him.

 

Latrell didn’t reply.

 

Jake laughed.

 

Shane laughed.

 

Jake kept laughing.

 

Jackal cackling. Shane couldn’t breathe, eyes closed, wiping his face, just laughing.

 

Latrell didn’t reply.

 

Didn’t speak for the next ten minutes. Not a word.

 

Rode on the Baldric through Hansen Basin, through Goatherd, through Dartford, past Firefly and the station he’d run off the other month and the Bolt Burger he’d run from. The f*cking YouTool and Secure Unit off Casey Avenue. Could see them on the parkway.

 

Could f*cking see them.

 

They turned off.

 

Onto Anger 8th Street.

 

Around the Van Woady golf course. Around Russey Row, onto 7th Avenue, onto 92nd Street. Right onto Doubleday Avenue and left onto 90th.

 

They slowed on 90th.

 

Stopped.

 

Cranked the stick to park.

 

Jake just said “Out.”

 

Door slammed.

 

Eyes right.

 

Shane already out airing his shirt out out the curb eyes trained on Latrell.

 

Latrell breathed.

 

Door pushed open with Latrell in the middle - Jake leading, Shane at his rear - these cramped apartments at 623 90th in red-black brick facades and burgundy fire escapes. Hallway small enough to spread your arms out and touch both walls with the elbow bending. Up the stairs past the mailboxes and the woman by apartment number three sweeping clean floors cleaner.

 

Shane said “C’mon, move it.”

 

Jake said “Move it, f*cko.”

 

Didn’t head up the stairs on the second floor. Right at the edge by the windows seeing Jake’s Bollokan streetside behind some other--

 

Bang bang bang bang.

 

Shane knocking with his elbow, covered the peephole with his index and chuckled to Jake.

 

Voice behind the door - “Yeah?”
 

“We got your black eyed f*ckin’ peas.”

 

“Wiseass f*ckin--” clack clack unlocking “you scared the sh*t outta me’--”

 

“Open the f*ck up, retard,” Jake cackled. “L-C-P-D.”

 

Door wide open.

 

Five-foot-six latino guy with greasy top-head curls and a goatee, squinty little dart-dart eyes was skipping between the three of them. Lime polo underneath navy windbreaker. “Howdy-doody, officers.”

 

“Christopher.”

 

Pointing, “Jake,” moved, “Shane,” moved, “Laquell.”

 

“Latrell,” said Latrell.

 

Sniffed, “Shoulda’ guessed. I listened to some of the tapes--”

 

“Can we come the f*ck inside?” Shane was barking. “Come the f*ck on.”

 

Christopher shrugged.

 

Invited them in.

 

Waxwood floors beckoned into another tight-ass halway. White walls leading into the kitchen, leading into the center. Big living room with a sofa turned into bacon central - recording equipment, desktop computers, coffee machine on the floor by the printer and a piddly little potted plant. This guy in the kitchen, portly pasty white boy holding a blue-white striped mug watching the trio enter.

 

Tiny little whiteboard between two windows with the shades drawn while the lights were on. A million names: Gerry Giordano, Whiz Caro, Mark Lupisella, Big Al Borgogni, Sammy Mazza.

 

Latrell sniffed.

 

Guy by the computer with headphones on - one ear in, one ear out - older dude with crackle-crack skin and baggy eyes and thinning gray hair. Disheveled button up a size too large anxiously tap-tapping the table. Looked up.

 

Christopher put his arm around Latrell.

 

Latrell flinched.

 

Christopher said “It’s okay, pal.”

 

Shane said “My favorite mormon faggot.”

 

Mr. Disheveled said “Go f*ck yourself.”

 

Shane cackled. Jake back in the kitchen talking to the fella with the coffee mug.

 

Christopher whispered “You been with the DT long?”

 

Latrell flinched, “DT?”

 

“Disruption Team.”

 

Blinked. “That’s an official name?”

 

“They aren’t an official unit. That’s what everyone calls them. You been with them long?”

 

Latrell nodded.

 

Christopher nodded.

 

Let go. “Okay. Introductions--”

 

Disheveled said “Introductions. These morons,” pointed to Jake and Shane, “screw ‘em.”

 

Jake chuckled. Shane said “Bite me.”

 

Back to Christopher - “I’m Agent Perez,” he said. “This,” pointed to the guy with the mug, “Agent Moskalonek. And over there by the computers is Agent Enqvist, he’s supervisi--”

 

“You don’t wanna ask this dude’s real name,” Shane was laughing, “it’s nuts.”

 

Enqvist said “I go by my middle name.”

 

“That’s cheating! Tell him.”

 

Rolled his eyes. “Nephi.”

 

And Shane just laughed harder.

 

“This a goddamn circus, now?” Moskalonek said.

 

And Jake was going through the kitchen asking “Where you keep the mugs?”

 

Enqvist said “Why?”

 

“Colin said I could have a coffee--”

 

Enqvist said “Did you?”

 

And Moskalonek shrugged out a “Yeah.”

 

Latrell barely keeping up.

 

Latrell sat down.

 

Latrell looked at the whiteboard.

 

Looked back and saw Enqvist staring at him.

 

Christopher sat next to him. Jake with a coffee. Moskalonek by the computer.

 

Latrell said “What the f*ck is happening?”

 

Jake went “Pfft.”

 

“We’re with the FIB,” Christopher said. “With the Lupisella-Gambetti-Messina squad.”

 

“Why you acting like he’s all insomniac?”

 

“You said the guy was all finicky.”

 

Latrell said “Finicky?”

 

“Like you- yeah. Yeah.”

 

“You came at a bad time,” Enqvist said. “I just got this memo--”

 

Jake said “What do you mean?”

 

“We’re already bled out dry,” Enqvist went. “But I get word back from up above they can’t be screwed paying the rent for this place- I mean, we gotta be close to Lennox Island, but they wanna move this little spot out to Alderney.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah. They have these places in Koresh Square, Westdyke, goddarn Normandy, all these spots in Guernsey. Rent’s cheaper, blah blah--”

 

“Goddarn?”

 

“Bite me.”

 

“You get Alderney tomatoes and the weather’s better. What’s wrong with that? Lupisella crew in Alderney too - and Latrell, we’ll get to you about that--”

 

“This whole dock thing, we need to be close. I can’t commute from East Island to Alderney, that’s like two hours and then ten tolls.”

 

“Move to Alderney.”

 

“I told these guys, this is ridiculous. Because mobsters don’t go to mosques. There’s--” Enqvist looked straight at Latrell, “There are 25 agents on the entire federal mafia task force. You believe that crap? 25 for all five families. There should be 25 for the Pavanos alone. Should be two squads for the Gambettis and them. And yet. And yet.”

 

Latrell just said “Yeah.”

 

“Like he’s gonna know,” Jake muttered.

 

“I’m just saying--”

 

“It sounds like a raw f*ckin’ deal to me, son,” Latrell said.

 

Enqvist nodding, and nodding faster, and going “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I mean, we’re closers. We’re gonna book Giordano.”

 

Latrell looked back at the board.

 

 

“Him?”

 

“Yeah, him. He’s in pr- well, he was in--”

 

Jake said “You tryin’ to impress him?”

 

“I’m just saying. Giordano’s gonna get life. All the stuff we have on the tapes, we’ll take down the Mazza crew. Everything--”

 

“If you get the OC detail you’re a dog. You guys are all dogs. The f*ckin’... the retards of a retard agency. Moskalonek- you see that retard by the PC, Latrell?”

 

Latrell nodded.

 

“This is a demotion to him. He’s been on the Lupisella detail since--”

 

Moskalonek saying “Shut up--”

 

“--hey, since ‘08 and his financial crimes thing went and blew up in his face. Isn’t that right?”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Mr. Vinewood. You know Steve Haines, Latrell?”

 

Latrell said “Yeah.” Obviously.

 

“Steve Haines was in financial crimes and he went- get this- he went undercover. He went undercover, and was building a legend for two years straight working as a doorman at a gay club. You believe that?”

 

“It’s not that funny,” Enqvist said.

 

“You people are a laughing stock. What was he going by- Terry?”

 

“Troy Soto,” Christopher said. First words he’d said in a while, “And yeah, that was dumb.”

 

Moskalonek said “Screw you, man.”

 

“Two years trying to peg Gay Tony for tax evasion and drug trafficking. At Maisonette. And he’s so desperate to move from Hercules that they won’t f*cking move him! So much for that, huh?”

 

“We had good reason.”

 

“You should’ve investigated Haines. And he gets that little TV thing- he always wanted to be an actor, Steve Haines. I met him once when the OCB thing was crossing wires, such an entitled little sh*t. I heard he was a virgin--”

 

“We had good reason,” Moskalonek repeated.

 

“He was a transfer anyway,” Enqvist sighed.

 

“Oh, but you got him, didn’t you? You got his bouncer, his dick cut off and left in the Wampum Bay with two other spic retards. You found Gay Tony yet, Colin?”

 

“I let you get a coffee, man.”

 

“When we round up Roy Zito by March, you wanna ask him where they left the pieces of Gay Tony in Alderney? Maybe threw him in some garbage incinerator--”

 

Enqvist hit the table.

 

Jake shut up.

 

“Shut up, Jake.” That made it clearer.

 

“I was supposed to compare notes, man, give cueball the rundown, not hear your moaning about rent--”

 

Christopher put a hand up.

 

Jake stopped. Sighed. “Okay.”

 

“You got the tapes?” Chris asked.

 

“Already on the table. Waiting for what we got cueball here for, we get some... whatever.”

 

Beat.

 

Jake walked away to the kitchen.

 

Where’d Shane gone?

 

Latrell all quiet, “Where’s Shane?”

 

“He’s taking a sh*t,” Jake shouted from across the room. Last words - went and pulled out his phone.

 

Beat.

 

Beat.

 

Looked at Christopher.

 

Looked at Enqvist.

 

Both staring.

 

“Latrell,” Christopher said. “We got some in-roads we want to make into the LCPD investigation. OCB usually work hand-in-hand with FIB, this is that. But we need to know what you know and what you’ve done.”

 

Latrell nodded.

 

“You have, on tape, a list of the stuffs you’ve done,” Enqvist went. “We wanna hear it live. And there was the issue with the Bufano brothers we’re already familiar with, we want you to start with that.”

 

Latrell nodded.

 

“Go on.”

 

“Okay,” cleared his throat. “Is Bufano…” looked at the board, “is he a Lupisella?”

 

“Those are just captains and the brass,” Christopher said. “The Bohan side of the family are in Alderney, the Broker side of the family are in Lennox. Big Paulie, who you met at the car dealership in Tudor, correct?”

 

“Yeah,” Latrell said.

 

“We have reason to believe Paul Bufano is acting capo in place of Russell Lippi, who’s in prison. But he has a brother and a son, James and Joshua, who could be running it. It’s either that or Bufano is a high priority earner for Lenny Luongo, who’s another Alderney captain. Does that make sense?”

 

“Yeah,” Latrell said.

 

“You shot Angelo Bufano?”

 

Latrell hesitated. “Yeah,” he said.

 

“How?”

 

Latrell stared off. “These Jamaican guys in South Slopes. My five star, he got a connect from them, nahmsayin’, he got some sh*t and we got it to some our dudes. So he told me to talk to Kenton Beard and his two nephews or cousins or some sh*t. Andre and another guy.”

 

“And it was Kenton and Andre who shot Angelo?”

 

“No, it was… Andre and Delroy. I forget what them was related and sh*t, but they was blood relatives. Kenton heard about trucks, coming up from Florida. And didn’t know who was doing it, but we got our sh*ts on and we boosted the truck. And Andre, the dumb one, he shot Angelo in the face.”

 

Christopher said “Okay. And--”

 

“Also, was uh… was Ticky, this kid Ticky, and another dude named Scott Nana. That was there, when we boosted the f*ckin’ Mystaspot f*ckin’ dish soap.”

 

Patiently, “And then you met the Lupisellas in Broker?”

 

“Yeah. Yeah.”

 

“And it was unrelated to what happened in Alderney?”

 

“Big coincidence, son, and- I mean… okay. I went to Paulie’s place in Tudor, nahmsayin’, and I saw Scott, and I heard all this sh*t, but they didn’t know I did it and I was--”

 

“You’re going a little fast, man.”

 

“Where you want me to start?”

 

“Okay. You met Reuben Procida and Francesco Mazza in East Liberty?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Car crash, right?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“With your, uh, your friend Xavier’s car? Xavier Mill, I think?”

 

“Xavier Mills.”

 

“So you and Xavier were working with Frank Mazza?”

 

“No. No, only, uh, only I was working with the Italian dudes. I got Xavier because I needed another dude for the thing with the guy and that was some sh*t I needed a dude I trusted, so uh, I got him.”

 

Enqvist out of nowhere, “Did you sell the dish soap?”

 

“No,” Latrell said. “It was- I mean, who the f*ck we sell it to?”

 

“The racket they’re in is they sell the stuff on the cheap. Stores or bodegas or however. What did you do with it?”

 

“I dumped that sh*t in the river, man.”

 

Pfft. “Figures.”

 

“And the plan,” Chris was still patient, “was to work the inside of a prison?”

 

“Sorta,” Latrell said. “Yeah. What we do up in Broker, son, is we set dudes up in Astors with our sh*ts we get from some dudes we got.”

 

“Their names?”

 

“I don’t know ‘em.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“They wanted some peoples to do the same sh*t in, uh, the MDC or whatever the f*ck. I didn’t know any of that sh*t but I was just going along with it. I just said scream at a nigga and that’s what niggas did.”

 

Enqvist said “What?”

 

“What?”

 

“Scream at--”

 

Christopher, “Hey. But the Spadina thing.”

 

“What the hell does ‘scream at a n- uh, dude’ mean?”

 

“It means--”

 

“No, hey.” A little less patient. “Spadina. Spadina. What happened with Spadina?”

 

Latrell paused.

 

Blinked.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Christopher said “What happened, why’d it happen, that sort of thing. You know.”

 

“Uh.”

 

“What?”

 

“Okay.”

 

Enqvist snapped “Okay, what?”

 

“Like what?” Latrell went.

 

“Why? Why?”

 

“Why?” Christopher bleated. “Why’d you do what you did?”

 

“Uh.”

 

“Stutte--”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

This long pause.

 

Enqvist staring.

 

Christopher said “What?”

 

Latrell said “I mean, you know. I did it for, uh, you know, for Frankie and them. Uh, you know, for this, uh, this Albanian guy.”

 

Slowly, “Okay.”

 

“And that was- yeah. This why I did it, son, ‘cause of that.”

 

“What was his name?”

 

“Mergim.”

 

“A surname?”

 

And Latrell said “I don’t know. He was- I mean, he was a dope guy, he was a dope dealer, apparently. He sold Frankie pot.”

 

Christopher, “And there was a thing with him and Spadina?”

 

“I mean, I think. But he’d also pissed off the Lupisella guys or something.”

 

“Because,” Christopher said, “initially, our belief was you did this because of something Spadina had done. Him and some other guys- him and a man named Emanuele Di Magno, one named Chester Broccolini, Teddy Oliva. They’d gone into the social club of a Lupisella underboss. They beat up some of David Caro’s men over an unknown dispute, and the Lupisellas were rebuffed when it came to any restitution. Do you know David Caro?”

 

Latrell said “No.”

 

Chris pointed at the whiteboard.

 

 

Got a squint.

 

“Whiz.” Chris elaborated, “Do you have a familiarity with any of the men on the board?”

 

Latrell said “I met Sammy Mazza.”

 

“You remember any others? Any mentioned?”

 

“I remember Big Al. Something about him in Bantonvale, something about him in Lennox Island. That and… I don’t think, uh… maybe Loopy. I heard that a lot. He’s the boss?”

 

“Yes,” Christopher said. “He’s the boss.”

 

“Frankie and them ain’t on the board--”

 

“We work downward,” Enqvist said. “We don’t got so many people with the Bureau’s mob squad so we work from the top down to the bottom. Bottom is anyone who can be connected to the top. Small fish we let PD nab and stick with racketeering when we can round up the top guys. Okay?”

 

“Okay, well Frankie and them met with Sammy Mazza.”

 

“Where?”

 

“At his social club. The Maritime Navi- somethingwhatever, that. On Giglio Street. Outside a bus stop.”

 

“We’re familiar,” Christopher said.

 

Enqvist asked “Do you have it on recording?”

 

Latrell shook his head.

 

“So you shot- you shot Vyvyan, because you don’t know? And this was fine with everyone? You went to Bufano, you went to--”

 

“You bought guns from Bufano?”

 

Latrell said “Yeah. Well, no. He gave ‘em for free, and then Mergim was gonna pay us, and then they’d deduct a little from what we had from the hit so they could replace the biscuits, ‘cause we tossed ‘em.”

 

Moskalonek chuckled.

 

Latrell looked at him.

 

He averted his gaze.

 

Latrell looked at him.

 

He looked back at the computer.

 

Latrell looked at him.

 

Christopher cleared his throat.

 

Enqvist was saying something - got cut off. Grit his teeth and jumped back into it, “So you went to Bufano, you went to Mazza, for pot?”

 

“We thought that,” Latrell said. “Yeah?”

 

“And he was lying?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Cut to the chase - “Do you have a recording of you and Mazza discussing the killing of Mergim Keqi?”

 

Raised eyebrows. “That was his name?” Latrell asked.

 

“Him, yes, and his cousin Fatbard.”

 

Latrell chuckled.

 

Enqvist said “Hey.”

 

“What?”

 

“Are you out of your f*cking mind--”

 

Christopher said “Hey--”

 

“I-... hmph… I just--”

 

Back to Latrell, “You’d be willing to testify?”

 

Latrell said “Without a doubt. I mean, I’ll say anything you niggas want, b, I’ll say sh*t--”

 

“We only want what you can back up on the recordings, what’s true.”

 

“Or, sh*t, that- man, that too, whatever you dudes want.”

 

Enqvist grabbed the bridge of his nose, and he sighed real f*cking hard.

 

And he walked away.

 

Christopher just looked at the ground.

 

Latrell watched him leave.

 

Walk right out the door.

 

Perez put his hand on Latrell’s shoulder. “It’s alright.”

 

“I mean, I’m just trying to be cooperative--”

 

“He’s stressed. Look. We just wanted to set the record straight.”

 

“I’m setting it. You want details on this port sh*t too?”

 

“We got enough on that. We just wanted to establish the throughline. What happened on Morgan Avenue, that was… that was heavy, you know, because of what- uh, the- you know. What happened with the others.”

 

Latrell was blank. “What you mean?”

 

“Two got caught in the crossfire. You know that, right?”

 

Latrell was blank. “Oh. Well… sh*t. Man, f*ck, okay. Tsch... really?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Okay. Well, sh*t. That was them. You know? I ain’t even fire the gun, really. I mean, at the- sh*t. Who got got?”

 

Moskalonek just said it clinical: “Old guy and his daughter.”

 

“How old was she?”

 

“Thirty-something.”

 

“She dead?”

 

“Vegetative. The man is dead.”

 

Latrell nodding. Latrell nodding. Latrell nodding. “Okay.”

 

“We need as much cooperation as possible,” Christopher said. “Or you and the other two are getting life for this.”

 

“There was a fourth guy, too. Jamal Noland. He was another nigga who did it, and he was shooting more than me--”

 

Christopher blinked. “Say that again, say his name again?”

 

“Jamal Noland.”

 

And Christopher pulled a book out his jacket.

 

Flipped to a page.

 

Wrote it down.

 

Stared. “Okay,” he said. “So you, Mazza, Procida, and Noland?”

 

“They was all coked out,” Latrell said. “But I don’t do drugs. They was getting so f*ckin’ hyped up for that sh*t and they dragged me along--”

 

“Was there a prior relation with Noland and Mazza?”

 

“We all called him Noodles, and yeah, all the time.”

 

Looked at the paper. Back at Latrell. “Okay,” he said. “That’s a big help.”

 

Latrell smiled, and he said “Sure.”

 

This long pause.

 

Christopher flicked to another page.

 

Held it up.

 

 

Latrell looked at it long.

 

“Do you recognize any of the names on this sheet?” Christopher asked.

 

Kept looking.

 

“Yeah,” Latrell said. “Roy Zito. Obviously. I know Spadina and the dude Manny you said. Noto. Frankie and them was talking about Harvey Noto and these other guys.”

 

“Anyone else?”

 

“No.”

 

Christopher handed the paper to Latrell.

 

Latrell stared.

 

“Take it,” agent said.

 

And Latrell took it.

 

“We need you,” Christopher said, “to set up a deal for guns. We have our own undercover. Okay? He’s currently a contact of a Gambetti affiliate associated with a crew under a man under Avenue Don. Donato Cantavespre is underboss of the Gambettis, and him and his aide Jackie Acri, they run the zip faction.”

 

“Zip?”

 

“Zip means Sicilian or out-of-country Italians. First generation, off the boat. Our understanding is that Acri has a line right up to a clan of the ‘Ndrangheta in Calabria, and they and the Messinas use the port in Broker for drug trafficking. The Idà-Tuppitiari ‘ndrina clan, or cosca, or whatever. Out of Gioia Tauro. Zito was in court in 2011 for the same reason, same clan. Just couldn’t sell it to the jury.”

 

“I thought it was Russians in Salmond City.”

 

“Salmond City? There aren’t any Russians in East Liberty. What are you talking about?”

 

Moskalonek scoffed and said “Russians don’t do sh*t in this town except Medicaid fraud.”

 

And Christopher agreed, “You talk to the FIB Eurasian task force they’re gonna say the same thing. We’re gearing up for a big bust on them by next year, but nothing with gun smuggling. Chocolate smuggling, maybe.”

 

Latrell just said “Okay.”

 

“We’re going to get you in contact with the informant. But we need you wired up on this deal. The undercover is also going to be wired up, and the truck he’s gonna have the stuff in his wired up. You need to get the meet as soon as possible, and say you’re using his guns for the job. Okay? We can track these guns to are UC, tie it in further.”

 

“I’m pretty sure we might be going back to Bufano--”

 

“The way I see it,” Enqvist called back from the kitchen, “is that you don’t want to be 50 miles in Bufano’s radius. On account of the killing of his brother.”

 

“He don’t know that.”

 

“Say you need a neutral source,” Christopher snapped. “You haven’t got a choice. But we need you on tape discussing as much as you can. Any and all of these names, any crimes, any murders, anything you can possibly think of, because we need to bolster the government’s case.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Say anything and everything. Our undercover will play along. We aren’t busting you at the deal, we’re busting you at the port--”

 

“We need a big box wid’ a bow on top!” That was Jake.

 

“Ask anything and everything you can. Who the consigliere is of the Gambettis - we don’t know that. We are going to indict Gordon Blanda - Gordy Blinks - we need you to discuss him and GQ and anyone else. We need you to press Frankie and his cohort on the Messinas and their disagreement. Talk about those Dominicans or Puerto Ricans that Mark Lupisella castrated in a basement, like what Frankie said. And talk about how Roy Zito is a fag.”

 

Latrell blinked. “What?”

 

Moskalonek chuckled.

 

“Seriously, what?”

 

Jake shouted “Roy Zito takes it up the ass.”

 

Moskalonek laughed.

 

Christopher sniffed, “We have recorded evidence he tried to solicit sex from a man just the other month. A few other instances. He’s a queer. He’s had men killed for even thinking of saying it.”

 

And Latrell raised his eyebrows, and he said “Damn.”

 

“Talk about 2009, talk about Gay Tony, talk about 2011 and Sonny Bottino and ‘two years on a plea’. We’d prefer you have this deal at Rodney Gravelli’s tattoo parlor, since we have maybe six bugs in every part of the building, but we understand if you can’t set this up at a place you frequent. Talk about his family, too. His uncle Lazzaro’s a wiseguy, his father Gennaro’s a wiseguy, he’s a little blip on a whole family of degenerates.” But he put a finger up: “Most importantly? Talk about Morgan Avenue, and talk about those f*cking murders.”

 

Latrell was looking at the paper.

 

 

Muttering names under his breath. “So memorize all of these?”

 

“We want them all on tape and all plausibly connected to anything. Strongest case possible. Okay?”

 

“Do I call the UC or is they callin’ me?”

 

“Enqvist’ll give you his number. His name is Logan, but you’re gonna be calling him Darren. Look up these names on the computer, man, you’ll get articles, you’ll get a wiki, it’s a whole thing. Just anything for the tape. Alright?”

 

“Alright.”

 

Christopher put his hand back on Latrell’s shoulder. Said it slower, “Alright?”

 

Latrell nodded. “Anything you want.”

 

Smiled. Pat him on the back. “You want a coffee?”

 

Latrell smiled. Said “‘Course, man, sure.”

 

And Christopher got up.

 

And Latrell stayed.

 

Looked right out the window.

 

And right back at the note.

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

 

Edited April 26, 2022 by slimeball supreme

[slimeball supreme]

Avel

 

It had almost been a week.

 

Kassian’s mother couldn’t come up from Florida, and neither could her brother Naum or her nephew Kazimir. All three of Teddy’s brothers, in Odessa, had told her they didn’t want to - or simply couldn’t afford - the trip to Liberty City. Were going to sit Shiva across the Atlantic in penance, they said. She was still arranging the funeral from 1,200 miles away - Kassian wanted nothing to do with the proceedings, Teddy didn’t regularly attend any temples, and the police still had not released the body.

 

They couldn’t, they’d told her, because they needed to continue running the right procedures, and that as a part of the ongoing investigation, Fyodor Avelovich Feygin had to remain at the coroners. Kassian had come in to identify the body, and he left without a word.

 

It was 4 PM on the 30th of December.

 

Vadim had gotten his High Life card out and was showing it off - he had a platinum card, he was a big boy, big macho motherf*cker, and then after separating the lines he used the Burger Shot straw to snort the amphetamines off the glass-top of his coffee table.

 

“Bozhe, bozhe, bozhe- mi mi mi mi fuccck, huh? Huh? You see that?”

 

“See what, see what?”

 

“Kanye has a black card. Okay? Kanye has a black card.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Singing, “This no question if I want it, I need it. Huh? I can feel you slowly drifting away from meeee…”

 

Kassian chirped “Hand it over.”

 

“Hand what over? Eddie, can you put the song on?”

 

Kassian said “The straw.”

 

Eddie said “What song?”

 

Vadim said “The one where Kanye goes, uh, ‘I can never ever ever let you down, down down--’”

 

“The straw,” Kassian said.

 

“Okey dokey, okey dokey, take it.”

 

Vadim’s apartment was sparsely decorated but filled with stuff. A lot of new stuff, a lot of stuff with the tags still on, a lot of packaging and a full-up trash can with a bunch of crushed cardboard boxes stuffed into the next-door compartment. He had a new eXsorbeo - the new new one, the eXsorbeo Zero - he had new ProLaps and a new Schmidt & Priss TV and a new Meinmacht phone dock he’d connected to a subwoofer that he’d turned off but said he could turn on if he really wanted to, but it would piss the neighbors off. And no thanks, Vadim respects his f*cking neighbors.

 

And then Kaz did a rail and went “Oh-hooo, wow!” Smacked his forehead with his unbroken arm, “Wow, wow, wow. You want a taste Abbie, you want a taste?”

 

And Abbie said “No,” because he was saving himself for some smack later on. Had a preferred sort of high.

 

“I gotta tell you,” Kaz was saying, “I forgot to tell you--”

 

Gorgeous was playing.

 

Vadim shouted “Yes! Yes! That’s it! That’s it, motherf*cker!”

 

Abbot said “What, Kaz?”

 

But Kaz had moved on, “Vadim, Vadim--”

 

“Buddy, okay, listen, okay--”

 

“I’m- f*ck--”

 

“Can get an uh… can get a Beam, Eddie?”

 

Eddie said “What?”

 

“I have Beams, huh, I f*cking thirsty, can you get Beam- Beam in the frigerator--”

 

“I ever tell you about eCola?” Kassian asked.

 

Vadim said “What?”

 

“Why they’re called eCola, I ever tell you about that? Because Beam and eCola--”

 

Abbot said “Hey, Kassian, what were you--”

 

“Because,” Kaz was yelling, “they sound like- it sounds like ecoli, right, and with the infectious thing--”

 

Vadim said “What?”

 

“The slogan--”

 

BANG BANG BANG BANG “SHUT UP COME ON--” muffled behind the wall was the f*cking neighbor.

 

Vadim shouted “Eat my f*cking dick--”

 

“SHUT THE HELL UP SHUT THE HELL--”

 

Kassian yelling “Hey, listen--”

 

And Abbot’s phone rang.

 

Abbot’s phone rang.

 

Abbot checked.

 

Benny.

 

Abbot got up.

 

Kaz asked “Where you going?”

 

Abbot said “Work” and walked out the front door into the hallway.

 

Shut it. Still heard the music through the walls.

 

Phone to his ear - “Benny? Hello.”

 

“We have to talk,” Benny said. Benny serious.

 

Abbot asked “Where?”

 

“Saint Basil’s. Bring Kassian.”

 

Scrunch-faced when Abbot said “Why?”

 

“We need to talk and Kassian needs to come.”

 

Abbot nodding silently, Abbot nodding for no good reason since Benny couldn’t see it besides. “Sure,” he said. “I’m in Weir Ridge. I’ll be a few.”

 

“Okay.” And Benny hung up.

 

Door was open and the TV was on tuned to Weazel and the song was still playing and they all had their soda now - f*cking blue can Beam - Kaz mid-sentence going “--in the civil war, right?”

 

Eddie was listening, “So what?”

 

Vadim wasn’t, “So what?”

 

Abbot walked over, Kaz still going “Listen, listen--”

 

Right in his ear, “We gotta go.”

 

Kassian whispered “What?”

 

Abbot repeated, “We gotta go.”

 

Kassian said “What? Why?”

 

“Benny.”

 

“Okay, then you go.”

 

“No,” Abbot said. “Benny wants you.”

 

Eyes wide.

 

Stopped.

 

“We gotta go.”

 

And Kaz just uttered out this throaty little “What?”

 

Abbot stared.

 

Vadim said “What, what he say?”

 

So Kassian got up.

 

Looked at Vadim.

 

“We gotta go for business reasons and stuff like that and it’s business so I gotta go and we gotta go,” spewed out breathless and he was first out the door.

 

Abbot followed.

 

Out the front Kaz shot the cuff on his Rearwall puffer, a f*cking knockoff, dusted the lint off the sweater, threw a hand through the dyed out hair with the other pinned right to his chest with the sling, breathed out heavy muttering “f*ck f*ck f*ck” under his breath headed down the stairs onto the street. Was Abbot lagging behind, pulling the keys out his white Hinterland weathergear parka he’d thrown on heading out and forgot which pocket he’d kept it in--

 

“Hurry it up, man, hurry it up.”

 

Kaz waiting by the Cavalcade impatient. Not like he could drive with one arm.

 

What was being said - forgot which pocket he’d kept the thing in over the gray-brown Tree crew neck sweater going off about clothing. Had to look nice no matter how impromptu.

 

Getting late out. Wet fleck roads and the car went off and Kaz with his fingers pinched turning Bill Evans right down.

 

Said “Abbot.”

 

Abbot was driving and said “Yeah?”

 

“This ain’t a good time.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Did he say why?”

 

“No. He never says why, he never says why.”

 

“This ain’t a good time.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Beat.

 

Abbot reached for the dial--

 

Kaz said “Hey.”

 

“Just say it.”

 

“What?”

 

“You wanna say why it’s a bad time, just f*cking say it. Why is it a bad time?”

 

“I was gonna tell you at the apartment.”

 

“What, you wanna f*cking go back? Tell me.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Okay!”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Say it, f*ck.”

 

“I have a thing.”

 

“Well if that ain’t something--”

 

“I have a thing and I need to do it tonight or today otherwise I can’t do it so you know I hope we’re done quick--”

 

“What?”

 

“You remember?”

 

“Remember what? Why the f*ck you being so cagey all a sudden, just--”

 

“The thing at the club. Okay? Okay?”

 

“Alright.”

 

“The fentanyl. The dope, the dope, the credit card numbers--”

 

“Alright, what? Okay?”

 

“I got a new guy.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Okay? That’s it? I got this guy, I don’t even need to give him the credit cards, and he’ll give me the same sh*t for a better price.”

 

“Fine. We’ll see him after.”

 

“What if we can’t?”

 

“Yeah, Kassian, what if we can’t? Who cares?”

 

“He does. And he won’t- I mean first of all, if I flake I look like a f*cking moron, but this is a big deal, he said this was hot and he was offloading it to me or some other guy and I was--”

 

“Who is he?”

 

“Black guy up in East Liberty. Has a few guys and a big mill someplace, distributor wholesale some sh*t like that, but this is big. And they don’t know us and it ain’t a scam because I met the guy and he was smooth--”

 

“Met him where?”

 

“He was bouncing at some club someplace and we talked.”

 

“Bouncing? Like, door-duty?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Okay. And he can’t wait a day?”

 

“No.”

 

“Well, f*ck him then.”

 

“I need the scratch, Abbie, don’t be a f*ckin’ yutz.”

 

“So if we can’t see him, he won’t reschedule his appointment, I mean- what if this is a courtesy call or something or- who’s the boss, Kassian?”

 

Nodded. “Benny,” Kaz said.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Who’s the guy you’re gonna prioritize? This bum or Benny?”

 

Sucked in his cheek. “Benny,” Kaz said.

 

Abbot nodded.

 

Kassian sighed. “I had it all planned out.”

 

“We’ll get it.”

 

“And what does that f*cking- I made a commitment, what does that say about me? Or whatever? That--”

 

“Who cares?”

 

“I had it all planned out.”

 

“It’s fine.”

 

“God f*cking damn it.”

 

“What’s the f*cking problem, what’s wrong with you?”

 

“Benny said me specifically?”

 

“What?” Paused. “Yes. Yeah. I said that.”

 

“I’m f*cked.”

 

“What?”

 

“I’m f*cked, Abbot.”

 

“You’re fine.”

 

“I’m f*cked I’m f*cked I’m f*cked--”

 

“Kassian--”

 

And Kassian screamed, grit his teeth and screamed, and then a second later put his head in his lap.

 

Nobody said anything until Beechwood.

 

It was 4:40 PM.

 

Parallel parked at the dentist across the street and Kassian slammed the door and trudged through the wet street grabbing the in-between of his jacket pulling it tight. Nearly got hit by a car jaywalking, car honked the horn, didn’t reply and waited at the door while Abbot checked the time and followed. Happy New Year in big red letters over the restaurant windows, couldn’t see inside. Maybe intentional.

 

He was clapping on entry for nobody.

 

Restaurant was closed for no good reason.

 

Felix.

 

Only Felix at one of the tables in TankTop jeans with the colored stitching and the logo embroidered on the back pocket, tight black t-shirt maybe Didier Sachs with the little logo on the breast, bottle of Cherenkov and no glass. Wiped his eyes. They were red.

 

Kaz was slapping his chest with the hand, “Hey hey, hey hey. Hey hey.”

 

Felix didn’t reply.

 

“Benny,” Abbot asked. 

 

Felix snorted. Put the bottle down.

 

“Cherenkov, huh?” Kaz did this cute little grin, “What that cost Benny, 10 dollars? He buy from the grocery?”

 

Felix blinked. Put up a finger, nearly said something - then just sighed.

 

“It’s a joke.”

 

“Okay,” Felix said.

 

“I mean if you want real vodka--”

 

“Abbot.” Felix wiped his face, “He tell you?”

 

Abbot said “Tell me what?”

 

“With the- haha… with the gotta do. What I gotta do.” Licked his lips and grit his teeth, “What I gotta do.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Abbot said.

 

“Is not the first time. Is not the first time. Is not the first time.”

 

“I am.”

 

“Is not the first time, so is okay.” Laughed fake, “What I done…”

 

“It’s not easy.”

 

“I did seventeen year already. I did seventeen year already.” Slack jawed and sat back down on a closer seat, fist covering his eye. “He’s in the private room.”

 

Kaz shifted. Didn’t say anything.

 

Abbot murmured “I’m sorry.”

 

“Tell that to… okay. Okay. Okay.”

 

Okay.

 

Kaz lead.

 

Abbot followed.

 

Abbot looking back.

 

Felix slumping over.

 

Door opened.

 

Benny dressed simple - simple for Benny: funeral monochrome suit-and-tie, unbuttoned reefer coat, leaning two fingers against the forehead and his eyes twitch-twitch-twitching. Two phones flat on the table, one his real phone, his iFruit something-or-other. Other was a burner prepaid with the dial pad maybe from 10 years ago, something he could toss out.

 

Kassian wasn’t leading anymore. Like he was afraid of the whole thing, lingering by the door before tailing.

 

Benny looked up. Said hi with his eyes.

 

Abbot said “You told him, didn’t you?”

 

Benny nodded.

 

“Told him what?” Kaz angled in, “What did you tell him?”

 

Benny looked at Kaz, then looked at Abbot, then looked at the phone. “You know what happened with your father, Kassian?”

 

Kassian didn’t reply.

 

“Rami Yalon is in Florida,” Benny said.

 

“Okay,” Abbot replied.

 

“Yusuf’s in the office calling his son. Achban is out- he was here earlier, he need to--”

 

“Achban?” Abbot squinted, “What’s going on?”

 

Benny folded his arms on the table. “Kassian,” sighed. “This is not to be said outside of this room, okay?”

 

Kassian nodded. Wide-eyed. 

 

“We’re going to be served indictments in the new year. Our peoples are saying things are already in motion and they’re moving ahead with search and seizure warrants.” Hands up now, “We have things under control. But it needs to be said things in community be will not very good for a moment.”

 

“Am I in the crossfire?”

 

Benny visibly held back. Closed his eyes a second before opening, “No.”

 

Kassian nodding faster now, “Okay, okay.”

 

Abbot said “What’s Achban doing?”

 

Benny sighed.

 

“What’s going on?”

 

“We have a thing,” Benny said.

 

Like that meant anything. “Okay.”

 

“We need some people out of the city and we need some people to organize with the points men down in Vice. Yes?”

 

“So Achban’s going?”

 

“We need someones go with.”

 

Abbot said “Why?”

 

“Why what?”

 

“Why?”

 

“We need someones to organize with the points men down in Vice.”

 

“Why?”

 

Benny squinting. “What?”

 

“Why do you need someone down in Florida? You got people.”

 

“To relay the communication.”

 

“Tell them on the f*cking phone.”

 

“Don’t be stupid, huh? Don’t be stupid.”

 

Abbot not backing down, “So what?”

 

“Because something coming into Viceport--”

 

“Who’s gonna be driving you?”

 

Playing with his turned-off phone like food. “Yulya,” Benny said. “Good girl.”

 

“Send her.”

 

“Abbot--”

 

“You want someone to go with Achban, send her. Okay? That’s it.”

 

Benny was gritting his teeth, “It’s already decided.”

 

“I f*cking can’t. Send Yulya.”

 

“It is already decided. And you are going now.”

 

Kaz butt the f*ck in, “Now?”

 

“He’s at his f*cking hotel on the way to his f*cking hotel.”

 

“I got sh*t--”

 

“He’s already going his hotel.”

 

“Why the f*ck me?” Abbot said. “Why me?”

 

Pulled a pen out his pocket with no paper to write on. “I need someone can organize with familiarities with our friend’s things.” Probably meant Roy, probably meant the docks, probably meant Kenny. “And Achban you brother, and you…” 

 

Abbot stared.

 

Benny stared. Eyes said ‘you want me to say it?’

 

Abbot’s said ‘fine.’

 

“And Kassian, with you father. Okay?”

 

“With what?” Kaz balancing on the ball of his foot uncomfortable, f*ck all to say.

 

“You father.”

 

“What, his funeral?”

 

“Police going to be asking these questions. And if you no can be asked questions at all… there no LCPD in Florida, okay? In case.”

 

Kaz nodding, and nodding faster with it all sinking in. “Yeah. Yeah, no, yeah. Okay. It actually works for me.”

 

Abbot snapped “What?”

 

“It works for me.”

 

Abbot stared.

 

Meeker now, “It works for me.”

 

Abbot blinked.

 

Turned to Benny.

 

Said “Tell Achban to meet us at Eugene’s, okay? We can talk about it there.”

 

“No,” Benny said.

 

“So I can get my car serviced a moment for the ride, he does it for cheap and you told him--”

 

“Achban don’t like Evgeniy.”

 

“What? What the f*ck has Eugene ever done?”

 

“He just doesn’t.”

 

“So we can’t even f*cking talk?”

 

“You head into the city for him hotel and you get the better way for the tunnel and the bridge and--”

 

“I’m doing this for you, god-f*cking-damn it. Why can’t you f*cking give me a moment?”

 

“You do what you f*cking told.”

 

“And I am. You know I am, you know how I am. But f*cking now, f*cking inconvenient, f*cking in the middle of something, you throw this sh*t at me I can’t even get my bags packed.”

 

“You want you bags packed?”

 

“Yeah, I want my f*cking bags packed.”

 

“You no talk to me like that.”

 

“You’re sending us on a f*cking whim. Bullsh*t!” Abbot speaking with his hands now, “And you know what I can f*cking say to you about all the f*cking things we said.”

 

Benny stopped.

 

Benny stared. Eyes said ‘you want me to say it?’

 

Abbot’s said ‘Absolutely, motherf*cker.’

 

And Benny kept staring. Murder eyes. And he said “Fine.”

 

“Okay?”

 

“It has to be today. You leave today, you go to his hotel. You go to, uh f*cking, uh Columbus Center. Not a far trek for his walk, Achban can get his dinner.”

 

“Eight,” Abbot said.

 

“Eight?”

 

“I’ll be there by eight.”

 

“You can’t pack a f*cking hour?”

 

“If you want me to go, yeah, I f*cking can’t.”

 

“He’s gearing up to go now.”

 

“You call my r*tard f*cking brother,” Abbot snarled, “and you tell that f*cking idiot to wait. Okay?”

 

Benny was clenching his teeth, you could see it past the lips. Unblinking. Softer than Abbot ever heard Benny talk, “Columbus Center at eight. I’ll tell him.”

 

“Alright.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Abbot softer now, “Got what you f*cking wanted.”

 

“I understand,” Benny said. “With him. Okay? But it is necessary.”

 

“Oh, don’t give me that f*cking sh*t.”

 

“Listen to me, okay? Listen to me.” As slow, as soft as the man could go. “Prevention is better than cure. You doing this, you listen to Achban and Rami have to say. You get what need distribute distributed. That’s prevent. You don’t go, or someone go not know what you know, we gonna need a f*cking cure.”

 

Abbot didn’t reply.

 

“You say what need saying. We need someone with history with peoples so they don’t scare. And you know the situation not flexible, f*cking police on our--”

 

“Eight at Columbus.”

 

Benny just blank-faced now. Staring off. “Eight at Columbus.”

 

Abbot glared at Yusuf on the way out the door. Yusuf looked back - Abbot said boo. Kaz laughed.

 

Car door shut.

 

4:56.

 

“Holy f*cking sh*t.”

 

Abbot just said “Yeah.” Gripped the wheel, repeated, “Yeah.”

 

“How the f*ck did you get away with that?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“You speak to- holy sh*t. Haha! Drive, what the f*ck are you waiting for, let’s go!”

 

“Where?”

 

“Where, where- thought I said-- corner of Milden and Van Benthen. Milden and Van Benthen. Projects behind the high school.”

 

“High school, huh? We doing a PSA?”

 

“You f*cking kidder. Come on.”

 

5:11. Corner of Thapsus Street on Milden, Lucky Plucker lights bleeding onto the windows and Kassian sniffing.

 

Abbot said “You think we got enough for the trip?”

 

“Enough what?”

 

Abbot didn’t reply.

 

Kaz realized.

 

Oh. 

 

“Sure,” Kaz said. “And hey, these guys sell good sh*t, this fent. You think on that. Twice the high on half the sh*t, he said.”

 

“I know fent.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Sure. They do that sh*t in the boondocks, don’t they? The Virginias or whatever.”

 

“They do it everywhere.”

 

“Sure. Okay.”

 

“Hey,” Kaz leaning on the console, trying to get a bead on Abbot’s eyes. “What was he saying?”

 

Abbot didn’t reply.

 

“Nice.”

 

“You mean Benny?”

 

“No f*cking sh*t.”

 

Abbot stared. “I don’t know.”

 

“What’s with Felix? Mister Grocery Store? What’s happened?”

 

Abbot didn’t reply.

 

“It got something to do with what we’re doing, Abbie?”

 

Abbot said “Sorta.”

 

“So what?”

 

Abbot sighed. Smiled. Stopped smiling. “He’s eating a charge.”

 

Kaz said “Damn.”

 

“Yeah, damn.”

 

“It bad?”

 

“It’s bad.”

 

“Like murder or some sh*t?”

 

“I don’t know the details, Kassian.”

 

“But you’ve been on the ground floor, right?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“So what? Who else? Anyone else we know?”

 

Abbot thought. “Sure.”

 

“Like who? Tell me, f*cker. Tell me.”

 

Shrugged. “Pasha. Revaz. Yugo. That boxer friend of Revaz, the big guy who did that big thing with that black guy, Odom or something. That bout he lost.”

 

“Yugo? Are we--”

 

“No.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Yugo hasn’t got squat on anything and he wouldn’t be good for it anyways. They’ll probably just take his medical license or some sh*t. I don’t know. That’s what Benny was like.”

 

Words through Kassian’s eyes. Was thinking. “Yeah?”

 

Nodded.

 

“How you know that?”

 

Abbot just said “I was told.”

 

“Yeah? ‘Cause you drive?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“You get afforded that? ‘Cause you drive?”

 

“What, you want more? I can tell you all kinds of sh*t. Just say it.”

 

Kassian had nothing to say. “Benny just lets you talk to him like that.”

 

“Not necessarily.”

 

“Sure.”

 

“Yeah. I can’t- I mean, I do what I’m told. But I mean, I was right to f*ckin’ tell him to f*ck off, weren’t I? We got sh*t to do. We got your thing. And what, we drop it, we go cross country for a f*ckin’ month? Even if we were going anyway--”

 

“What was it you and him talked about? He said that.”

 

And Abbot mulled that over. “You remember Lenny?”

 

Kaz blinked. “Yeah.”

 

“Well Benny was close to him and his pa, he said.”

 

“I forget his name. Kuzma?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Or Konstantin?”

 

“No, Kuzma. Kenny.”

 

“What, was Benny the babysitter?” 

 

“I don’t know, but he was crying once about that. And some other sh*t. This- look, it’s serious. Okay? It doesn’t leave the car.”

 

And Kaz was desperate, “Sure, sure, lips like a nun’s c*nt.” Chuckled at his own gag.

 

“Okay.”

 

“So what?”

 

“So this guy he killed. And he did the work himself. And some weight I pulled, some work I wet. Stuff like that. I met these Italians.”

 

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, like Giordano.”

 

“No, like way high up.”

 

“Giordano was high up. Giordano ran all kinds of weight, man.”

 

“Listen. One of those dry cleaner chain places near East Hook. And I did a favor for a real high up guy, and we talked, and we were talking about this Florida thing maybe back in October or September. I went down to the Navy Yard or whatever and I walked with all these guys.”

 

Kaz watching with these big eyes. “Yeah? Who?”

 

“I don’t know if--”

 

“Oh my god, f*ck off.”

 

“Seriously.”

 

“Movie star. f*ck you, tell me. Tell me.”

 

Hands up off the steering wheel, “I don’t know.”

 

“You don’t know who?”

 

“No. God. Do you want me to say it?”

 

Kassian eyeing. “Are they important?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Okay. Would I know them?”

 

“I don’t know. I met a lot of big guys and I only knew one guy’s name prior.”

 

Easy, Kaz said “Who?”

 

Abbot thought. And Abbot said “Roy Zito.”

 

Laughed. “Get the f*ck outta here!”

 

“He was the guy.”

 

“No you did f*cking not.”

 

“Hey, if you say so.”

 

And Kaz’s eyes wide, “No sh*t.”

 

“He had like six guys on him at all times and one time he made them leave the room so I could talk to him.”

 

Eyes still wide, “You’re yanking my f*cking chain.”

 

“I didn’t even ask, he just did it.”

 

“Oh, yeah yeah. You went to a Spin on This, you got a private audience with Roy Zito, you sucked his cock and then he drove back home in an ice cream truck. You and him, you were gonna kill the President. Get f*cking real.”

 

“Hey, yeah. Believe what you want.”

 

“Was Bruce Spade there? Did you and Cloe Parker have a good time?”

 

“No, it’s cool.”

 

“Every chump wants to say they’ve met Roy Zito, Abbot. You watch one of them f*cking videos on the internet, you get these snitches who go up on the videos and they talk about how badass the bosses are. And none of them ever met a boss. And that’s wop sh*t. And the wops are all idiots. Nobody takes them seriously no more, all they got is wiretaps and fed bulletins and f*cking nonsense if you work with them.”

 

“I told you what I told you, and I told you because you wanted to know.” Abbot shrugged. “So take it or don’t.”

 

“So who’d you meet with? One of his goons?”

 

“I guess.”

 

“He’s a boss, Zito.”

 

“I know.”

 

“You really aren’t bullsh*tting are you? You’re the Ladderman, huh, f*cking social climber.”

 

“It’s not like I expected to. He told me about his Snapmatic.”

 

“Haha. Roy Zito who hands out turkeys at Christmas. Mister San Gennaro poses for the cameras at the stalls.”

 

“We had a whiskey.”

 

“I don’t mean no offense, Abbot. But this sounds like some mad movie wannabe sh*t. If I said I’d had a coffee with Jon Gravelli--”

 

“Roy Zito just complained a lot. That’s all he did. I think he just wanted to complain to someone wasn’t an Italian or something. And what, I’m gonna say no? I don’t want to brag about him. I met him a couple times over the fall. And I hope it’s just that.”

 

Kaz looking out the window now, hands folded on his chest. “Vadim would sh*t.”

 

“I don’t want Vadim to know.”

 

“This is like saying you met the President.”

 

“Yeah. I know.”

 

“Even if the Italians aren’t nothing no more. I mean, they still run things, right? Not even a capo or nothing you met.”

 

“Please stop making a big deal outta this.”

 

“He talk about Bottino?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“He talk about, uh… what he talk about?”

 

“His Snapmatic and all the idiot Italians he used to hang around with who died. Can we talk about this some other time?”

 

“Sure.” Almost scoffed. “Yeah, okay.”

 

Drove.

 

East Liberty. Past First Degree Avenue on Linden Boulevard, then past Alderney Avenue, then the High School and the green Dilettante cabs parked on the curbside.

 

Van Benthen.

 

Down Norman.

 

5:25.

 

“Park up here, park up here.” Parked up on the side of the road where the school sat. Across was the projects: basketball court and a lot with a couple of park benches and empty concrete. Guys in hooded sweatshirts hanging out on the seats, a few on the pathways through the buildings. Spotters.

 

Looked rightways, to Kassian and the Milden Park Tennis Courts.

 

Kaz checked the inside of his Rearwall puffer and pulled out the Hawk & Little Fitzgerald .38. Taped grip, dinky piece. Checked the cylinder. Full. Tinkle tinkle of loose rounds in the pocket. Miracle he was able to with his sling, his free hand dancing around maneuvering the thing in and out.

 

“How many you got on you?”

 

“A bunch,” Kaz said.

 

“We supposed to be heated?”

 

“You go in without insurance and you got pebbles for brains. You remember Osip. You didn’t go in heated for that, right?”

 

“No.”

 

Sniffed. “No offense.”

 

Abbot came heated. AB Twenty-eighT semi-auto, wicked piece, polymer with the picatinny rail barrel underside. Pulled it out just to look at it, knew he had the spares on him.

 

Kaz looked a little at the gun.

 

Abbot looked back.

 

“What happened to the Wilhelm subcompact you got?”

 

Blinked. “It was hot.”

 

“Damn. They didn’t tell you?”

 

“I found out later.”

 

“Phoo. sh*t. You’d have to be f*ckin’,” chuckled, “certain or stupid to toss somethin’ like that. Real dumb to use a piece like that in something big. Real stupid to sell it after. You remember who sold it?”

 

“Guy I knew from another guy. Outside the guys we know. Some putz.”

 

“Yeah. I was thinking it was something from Pasha. Tactical little f*ckin’ police gun, real expensive sh*t. With the bumps on it and everything. He got those Vom Feuers you said, didn’t you?”

 

“I got this from Pasha.”

 

“Yeah. That’s a pig heater.”

 

“Yeah. He’s got all kinds.”

 

“Mister Abbie NATO. Hop the f*ck on.”

 

Hit the door.

 

Onto the street.

 

Winter air whipping jacket back holding the Twenty-eighT by the grip out his waistband. Looking left, looking right, nobody present.

 

Some kid by one the pathways with eyes on the two. Looked at them a while. Sprinted away. Spotter. Guys with purple sweatshirts keeping hands to themselves watching likewise as they hit Milden Towers turf.

 

One kid - sagged skinny jeans and twists - got up from the group shouting “You want directions?!”

 

Abbot ignored.

 

Kid was laughing to his friends, “Check ‘em out, yo, son, yo, you want directions?”

 

“You on the wrong block!”

 

“Star Junction ain’t in Broker, man,” shouting as they kept going, “you gone the wrong way, son!”

 

“Take a picture! Take a picture!”

 

“Broke ass with the arm lookin’ mad, son, you mad? You mad?”

 

Ignored.

 

Someone threw a bottle.

 

Didn’t land nowhere near but the kids kept laughing.

 

“You know where we’re going?”

 

Kassian didn’t reply.

 

“Kaz?”

 

“I’uh… I mean, I know Rashad. He’s a big guy.”

 

“Fat or what?”

 

“Yeah. He’s got a Gakona.”

 

Squinted. “Is that a dog?”

 

“It’s a car. It’s like a Landstalker.”

 

“I don’t know cars that good.”

 

“Okay, well--”

 

“So we gonna ask one of these f*cking guys--”

 

“We’ll find him.”

 

Whistle. Kid ran past. Someone shouting, didn’t hear what.

 

Guys hanging out by the playground. More purple. Tall guy sitting on the jungle gym, music going, little guy maybe 5’6 getting up yelling “Where the f*ck you going?!”

 

Abbot stopped.

 

“You say something?” Little guy yelled again, “What’s poppin’?”

 

“You know anyone named Rashad?” Abbot yelled back.

 

Kid didn’t reply.

 

Guy on the jungle gym, “You a cop?”

 

“No. He’s fat, he drives a Brute Gakona.”

 

“You a cop?”

 

Little guy, “You niggas journalists?”

 

Abbot said “What? We’re not cops.”

 

“I know a nigga in Suydam got some dudes from the Liberty Tree come down talkin’ about f*ckin’ barber shops and sh*t.”

 

“What?”

 

“Are you niggas journalists?”

 

“No,” Abbot said. “Do you know Rashad?”

 

Little guy said “My name Rasheed.”

 

“No, Rashad. He’s fat.”

 

“He fat?”

 

“Yeah, he drives a Gakona.”

 

Kassian was staring at the street trying not to laugh. “We’re from Salmond City. The Russians.”

 

Rasheed shouted “Yeah?”

 

Kaz said “Yeah.”

 

You couldn’t make out the faces. They were talking quiet now, something-something, shouted “One-nine-five-four-five on Rabkin.”

 

Abbot said “Okay?”

 

“Just don’t be f*ckin’ weird, son, you f*ckin’ all over the place, son, what you doin’?”

 

Didn’t reply.

 

Guy on the jungle gym said “You heard 19545? That’s the building.”

 

Kaz said “Yeah!”

 

“A’ight. Just don’t be weird.”

 

Walked away.

 

Was a good distance when Kaz nearly tripped over some cardboard on the street and started f*cking laughing to himself.

 

“Salmond City?” Abbot asked.

 

“Sure,” Kaz said.

 

Squinted. “Isn’t that the Foxarbor Avenue strip, where the drag race kids keep smashing their cars?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“There are Russians in Salmond City?”

 

Cracked up, “Absolutely f*cking not.”

 

Whatever.

 

19545. 5:40. Was wandering around checking f*cking numbers outside the buildings getting dirty looks from residents. Snow slush gathering around the edges near the trash bags. Two guys outside 19545, saw the duo, one ran into the building.

 

Abbot walked up. Said “Hey.”

 

Guy with a fade didn’t reply. Just stared.

 

Kaz said “We’re from Salmond City.” Key phrase, “Rashad.”

 

Guy nodded. Said “Reynaldo.”

 

Abbot, “His name’s Reynaldo?”

 

Guy said “No. My name’s Reynaldo.” Entered the building.

 

Okay.

 

They followed.

 

Lights were dim in the towers. Hallways painted industrial like prison blocks, marker graffiti on the walls and the concrete staircases. Barely enough room for two side-by-side climbing up, couldn’t spread your arms without the elbows hitting. Went through one staircase, climbed up a couple floors. Went down a hallway with yellow paint and windows the size of bricks on the occasion.

 

Burgundy by blue doors like jail - STANDPIPE. Floor was cracked, gray hexagons. Paint was chipping.

 

“Salmond City,” Reynaldo said. Chuckled to himself. “What your names?”

 

“He’s Vova,” Kassian said. “I’m John.”

 

“John ain’t no Russian name.”

 

“John’s my name. My parents are Russian. They named me John.”

 

“You got your arm f*cked up, where you get your arm f*cked up?”

 

Curled into another staircase, “You’re not gonna believe it.”

 

“Ah, come on, son. You already know, son, I got my nephew got his arm broken needed a cast ‘cause he was sitting on the window. And he fell out the window. And then at school the kid was sayin’ he mad got in this fight with some Dominican or something. So I get that.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah, so I’m just sayin’, I’m an adult, son, I don’t give a f*ck what it is, son. You coulda’ been cleaning the fridge out or some sh*t, that sh*t fall on you. I don’t care.”

 

“It was a Chinese guy,” Abbot said.

 

Reynaldo laughed, “What, Ho Chi Sock?”

 

Abbot laughed too.

 

“Something like that, yeah,” Kassian said.

 

Wasn’t sure what floor they were on anymore. Just knew that from up on high the little brick-sized windows gave a good view of the nothing down below. A step away from a fifty foot drop. Dozen steel-paint Japanese cars and the occasional top-of-the-head wandering through the snow. Like ants.

 

Ants down there. Abbot repeated, “Ants down there.”

 

Kaz said “What?”

 

“You can see the little ants down there.”

 

He didn’t reply.

 

Door at the end of the hallway. Reynaldo knocked twice. Shadow over the peephole and then a click-clack unlock, door opened a crack. “What’s poppin’, balla?”

 

“I’m eatin’, son. You know Salmond City?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Got these guys from down there.”

 

“Now?”

 

“Yeah, lookin’ for Rashad.”

 

Door opened wide. Guy in a Swingers fitted and an Eris sweater, big ear-to-ear mouth and narrow nose. Dude said “Rashad’s in. You guys from Salmond City?”

 

Kaz went “He said, didn’t he?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Just now.”

 

“Okay. You good, Rey.”

 

Rey left.

 

They entered.

 

Heroin mill.

 

Three more guys around a plastic table with a bunch of powder being broke to little pieces. Little sachets the size of teabags with gloved hands sprinkling dust inside, sealing, stamping, setting aside. One watching the TV, sip of energy drink on the table, setting it back down and sorting.

 

Stamping the baggies. Guy with the stamps said “What’s good,” turned his head back to the TV.

 

Fitted cap said “Where Rashad at?”

 

“He’s taking a sh*t, he said?”

 

“You don’t gotta say that, son, just say he’ll be out in a minute.”

 

Abbot asked “What’re the stamps you guys got?”

 

“You new?” Fitted asked. “You use?”

 

“Yeah,” Abbot muttered.

 

“We get from different guys than we buy from,” Kaz said.

 

Concurred with another little “Yeah. Our dealer’s down in Weir Ridge. Fat bags. There’s this one stamp I really f*cking like, f*cking-what’s-it, they stamp with Happiness and the little torches.” To Kassian, “You used to get those Sessanta Nove ones?”

 

Kaz said “That guy who sold those got popped. Those were real good.”

 

“But nah, Happiness has great legs.”

 

Fitted said “Haven’t heard of them.”

 

“Our guy’s in South Broker.”

 

“Probably why, yeah, probably why.”

 

“But you got more than one stamp--”

 

“Yeah,” Fitted said.

 

“So I just expected only one.”

 

“We try diversify that sh*t, I don’t know. We cut the Panic ones with a little fentanyl, we cut the Bulldogs with a little benzo, sh*t makes you nod real good, you already know. And you give that sh*t to the dealer and the junkies come back goin’ ‘you got no more Panic, you got no more Brolic’, then we up. We got ‘em.”

 

“We got this dogsh*t from these Jamaican f*ckin’ guys,” guy from the table went. “We stamped those with f*ckin’ Brolic and sold up near Dukes. Out the neighborhood. All goofy white niggas. No offense. But they kept asking for Brolic.”

 

Fitted laughed, “That sh*t was, like, fifty percent detergent, son.”

 

Repeated, “No offense.”

 

“So Panic and Bulldogs?” Abbot went.

 

“We got two more. Sometimes they get the good stamps, son, sometimes you want a stamp and some motherf*cker already got it. They got a Truffade stamp up in Bohan now. I’m like, f*ck, I should’a--”

 

“What the f*ck?”

 

Turned.

 

Rashad. “What the f*ck happened to your hair?!”

 

Kaz laughed.

 

“And the arm? Son, what the f*ck?”

 

“I slipped on some black ice in the driveway.”

 

“That sh*t change your hair, too?”

 

Shrugged, “Blond ice then. How the f*ck are you, Rashad?”

 

Rashad was a big guy. Wasn’t lying. Maybe mid-high three hundred pounds, six foot four. Real big white sweatshirt and a trimmed out fade. Little eyes real close together. Could see him impulsively go for the dap before hesitating, looking at the arm, just shaking a hand.

 

He dapped Abbot. “Who’s this?”

 

“Abbot, old friend.” Kaz remembered, “Yo, I gave a fake name to your guy downstairs, that gonna be a problem?”

 

Rashad shrugged, “Ain’t his business. You cool, Abbot?”

 

Squinted. “I think so.”

 

“No, I mean, you move stuff?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“‘Cause I ain’t heard your name before. People come up from Salmond City, I don’t know what the f*ck.” Sat down a little slow on one of the spare chairs, “Oof. A’ight. But yeah. I just wanna know your sh*t kosher or what-the-f*ck-ever. That you my son, that we eat good.”

 

Kaz smirked, “We’re Bruce Spade, this is LaDiDa Grill.”

 

Didn’t even blink. “I don’t know that f*ckin’ white boy sh*t.”

 

Abbot played along, just said “I dabble.”

 

Fitted cap said “He use as well, he said.”

 

“Yeah, Niftiipreme?” Odd name. “Hey, not my business, we got sh*t make you dumb nod, b. Mad legs like a f*ckin’ marathon, you already know.”

 

Kaz said “You know Rashad is a vegan?”

 

Didn’t care. “Okay,” Abbot said.

 

“Because I’m fat, I can’t be vegan.” Laughing, “What is with you motherf*ckers, man?”

 

Niftiipreme laughing, “He is, I seen it.”

 

“Seen it. Seen it like what, like f*ckin’ bigfoot? What the f*ck you seen?”

 

“I seen you eating vegan.”

 

“I see niggas eat all the time, who gives a f*ck what a nigga eat.”

 

“Vegan cheese, son.”

 

“Who gives a f*ck?” Laughing, “I seen, I seen, I seen who gives a sh*t. ‘I seen you eat vegan cheese’, it’s vegan cheese. I’on even know why this a big deal. Like this is diamonds or some sh*t. You go to the store, they got cheese, they got vegan cheese.”

 

Laughing. Abbot thinking of time, thinking of time, licked his lips saying “You got the sh*t?”

 

Rashad stopped laughing a little. “It’s okay, son. Just a little parlay, nigga, the f*ck it matter? Just talking.”

 

Niftiipreme, “Just talking.”

 

Kaz gave him the eye. Like he’d forgotten the clock. But then he’d remembered. Evil eye went dull, went cockeyed. Said “Yeah, it’s good. But yeah. Yeah, we got some sh*t.”

 

“Like what?”

 

Rashad sniffled a little, “It’s a’ight.”

 

“I’m just wonderin’.” Niftiipreme’s eyes trained, “Just got my thoughts thinking.”

 

Not tense. Just uneasy.

 

They kept stamping the bags, and they kept filling them.

 

“I gotta see a relative out,” Abbot said. “He’s down at the Port Authority gonna take a Dashound.”

 

Nodding, “I heard you, I heard you.”

 

“Or you know I mean, for my pa’s sake--”

 

Rashad said “It’s cool,” got himself back out the chair and got on a toddler dodder toward the kitchen.

 

Kaz side-stepped. Impatient, got a glance.

 

Rashad crouched down. Grabbed the fridge from the underside, “I was gettin’ this sh*t from two ways. And my main guy, his connect was this little Mexican dude in the city, on the West Side. Kid got sh*tted on. Raided the f*ck out, jakes out, everything.”

 

Kaz, “He inside?”

 

Moved the fridge forward. “He some dude’s nephew or some sh*t? But he sold china girl to, f*ckin’, I don’t even know. But they all buggin’ the f*ck out because that’s a connect gone.”

 

Abbot not entirely following along. “So you don’t have it?”

 

“What the f*ck you think I’m doing?”

 

Blinked.

 

Yeah.

 

“Right.”

 

Kept moving the fridge. “I’m not an idiot.”

 

Abbot nodded even though nobody was looking.

 

Kaz said “I know.”

 

“He knows. He knows.” On his knees reached right behind the thing.

 

Pulled it out.

 

Black trash bag. “You see?”

 

“All that in a Puerto Rican suitcase,” Niftiipreme threw out. Joke didn’t land but he clapped and chuckled to himself anyway.

 

Rashad smiled, nodded, smile dead. Held the bag out, and Abbot took it.

 

Plastic bag inside a plastic bag. A million little blue pills topping the thing out.

 

Handed it over to Kaz. Rashad said “You leave, you leave with the sh*t inside the bag. Okay? Cops just see some nigga with the trash out.”

 

“I got the sh*t,” Kaz said.

 

“Or I can put it in my coat or whatever,” Abbot said.

 

Kaz unsheathed what was needed out the puffer pocket. Cash. Chinese cash. Cash he’d ripped off a nightclub in the city and got his arm broke for.

 

Rashad said “Or that, son, I don’t give a f*ck.”

 

Free arm hanging in the air with the money wrapped up in pink butcher paper. And Rashad took it, and unwrapped uneasy like, and started counting without a thought.

 

“We don’t gotta say the number. But we talked it. No fat mafia wad kinda’ say-it-for-the-mic deal.” Kaz rubbed his fingers together.

 

Rashad just counted.

 

Niftiipreme said “Put that sh*t back in the bag before you walk out. I don’t give a f*ck about no coat.”

 

“Just another nigga with a Puerto Rican suitcase.” Rashad didn’t smile, was just counting.

 

“White boy. Mafia white boy motherf*cker.”

 

Rashad laughed at that, looked up, “Jon Gravellis. Roy Zitos. We had some f*ckin’ Roy Zitos out here.”

 

Abbot raised eyebrows. “Yeah?”

 

“Yeah. Couple dudes get they car f*ckin’ smashed the f*ck up on the avenue by this one dude. Dude I know, real sus little dude. And everyone was gettin’ around them, I was playing dice, I thought the nigga was gonna bust some f*ckin’ heads, go dumb 730. And it’s these two little fat wop dudes--”

 

“Who you callin’ fat?”

 

“Yo, f*ck off.”

 

Niftiipreme, “You a hypocrite. It was Latrell, right?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I ain’t seen him much.”

 

“I was gonna say. I got told he got into sh*t with them before or after or f*ckin’ whatever. Thought they was cops or he busted they place up or some sh*t. And he was dumbed out, too, I straight f*ckin’ violated and he was pissed off he lost like- I don’t even know- couple hundred bucks shooting die, but you already know.”

 

“That nigga Trell jugg everybody, son.”

 

“Everybody wanna be the next Roy Zito,” Rashad said. “But they say ni**er like ten times in Badfellas, b, they racist as sh*t. Called him a moolie.”

 

“He ain’t my guy.”

 

“He’s a Balla, though.”

 

“That little hood booger motherf*cker. He play die he gets pissed the f*ck off, you already know, and my son don’t even pay the f*ck up when he lose half the f*ckin’ time.”

 

Rashad wasn’t counting.

 

Abbot said “You done?”

 

Rashad blinked, “Oh, sh*t.” Started thumbing.

 

Abbot looked to Kaz.

 

He was holding back the biggest f*cking smile he’d ever seen. Wasn’t saying nothing, in on a little secret. Giggles in his throat like a schoolgirl.

 

Didn’t blame him. Didn’t care.

 

“I ain’t heard nothin’ from my son, though, since that sh*t happened,” Rashad said. “Deal or whatever probably fell through since Ballas would be shakin’ some sh*t off that sh*t by now. But we ain’t got nothin’.”

 

“All the Italians are wired for sound now,” Abbot muttered.

 

“That too, son, that too. Woulda’ got himself killed or put the f*ck up behind some bars, son, he kept playing like that, you already know. Too many Ballas goin’ down.” He stopped counting, put the cash on the counter. “It’s all there.”

 

Kaz, “We Gnocchi?”

 

“Sure.” Leaned on the counter, “Or whatever you wanna call it, b.”

 

Niftiipreme sang out “Gnocchi and a Noch 17, my balla.” Nobody laughed. Or even really acknowledged it.

 

Staring at each other.

 

They were pouring, they were stamping. TV screaming Cleethorpes, that thing about shutting down the border to Muslims, this blonde in a blue--

 

“Turn that sh*t off.”

 

Guy packaging the dope didn’t even look up. Just got the remote and turned the TV off, and got right back to stamping.

 

Kaz said “Yeah.”

 

“Can I hug you, son? Or that arm--”

 

“I think we’re just gonna hit the bricks,” Abbot said.

 

Rashad nodded. “Happy New Year, b.” Fist to his chest, “Stay fed.”

 

Kaz still trying to hide the smile. “You too.”

 

Niftiipreme’d already gotten up. Already opened the door for them. Told Kaz, “Don’t take that sh*t out the bag.”

 

Abbot nodded.

 

Kaz grinned. “I ain’t opening the suitcase.”

 

The guy didn’t smile.

 

Turned on their heels, and they left.

 

Door shut.

 

Kassian f*cking cackled. “You hear what he said? You hear what he said?”

 

Abbot nodded. Didn’t smile.

 

“Roy Zito. Roy Zito this, Roy Zito that. He talk about these guys?”

 

“I don’t know, man.”

 

“Roy Zito. Abbie Roy Zito.”

 

Kaz took it out the Puerto Rican suitcase and stuffed the dope in his jacket.

 

***

 

Abbot had taken one of the pills out the plastic bag and crushed it with his elbow on the car dash while they were on the East Island Expressway. That was back in Shalimar Park, and Kaz wanted a little taste too, so he’d gotten the credit card out the wallet and split the fentanyl into two little spots.

 

It was an okay snort.

 

It was fentanyl, so it was good, but he’d heard mad sh*t and expected something that could run a f*cking marathon. This had the legs for a jog, maybe.

 

“Wow! Wow. Wow.” Kaz blinked it off, “It ain’t bad.”

 

“It’s alright.”

 

“What the f*ck are you, picky f*ck?”

 

“We schlep out to East Liberty for a good bag, I want a great bag.”

 

“This is what my dealer does.”

 

“Okay. And then he goes back. And so it’s great and he says that. I just expected--”

 

“You gotta be so negative.”

 

“I just got told it was great so I expected f*ckin’, like, f*ckin’ spaceman sh*t.”

 

Non sequitur, “I heard they don’t even stamp bags in Florida. I ain’t never really left, I mean the furthest I went was… f*ck, what was it. I went up. To Quinnebaug. And I went down… to some place I don’t know. With this guy, you wouldn’t know him.”

 

“I know,” Abbot knew.

 

“But they do fingers up in Botolph and they do fingers down in Florida.”

 

Good for them.

 

In the Dukes-Midtown Tunnel out from East Island City. Toll paid, traffic packed up tight. 108.5 nutso static and yellow lights stabbing the eyes staring at a Karin and somebody with a ponytail, white baseball cap. Lights aflicker.

 

Kept the static on. Checked the dash clock - 7:46.

 

Out from under the Civilization Committee, that big patch of grass nothing between Albany and Union Drive East, a million landmarks he couldn’t see.

 

Exit. Sky lit up. Rotterdam Tower spire with a digit toward the sky. City slogan emblazoned under the pilgrims arm-in-arm on the city crest: In Omnibus Divitiis. Swam with the swell of the traffic onto East H7 Street.

 

Radio picked up.

 

--HIDE EVERY TIME THE DOORBELL RINGS?

 

Does any of this sound familiar? Hi. I’m Jerry Giordano, and I feel your pain.

 

Big booming Broker accent. Kaz laughed a little.

 

My proven system doesn’t just consolidate your debt - it eliminates it. It’s not easy making ends meet, especially with the necessities you need. iFruits, a new car, a new lease. If you are hearing this, you are seconds away from financial freedom--

 

“I know that name,” Kassian said.

 

Abbot was frowning. “I hear these ads all the time. Them and the carpets and those ads for the f*cking kid cars with the annoying f*cking jingle.”

 

“Bikes2Tikes.”

 

“And Kill Debt Dead.”
 

“Nah, I told you about Gerry Giordano.”

 

“What?”

 

--55, KYDD. That’s 555, 5933. Sign up for a program today! No hassle, no qualifiers--

 

“Giordano. You remember? Giordano.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Oh yeah.”

 

“They’re related?”

 

“Yup.”

 

“Gerry with a G and Jerry with a J?”

 

“Yuuup.”

 

Laughed. “Who was he with, the gangster Giordano?”

 

“One of the dagos. Oh, but you. You know Roy Zito. He’s not high up! Who gives a sh*t about some eighty-something thug--”

 

“They’re all eighty-something thugs.”

 

“You get to be so flippant! So flippant!”

 

Past the Brazilian Consulate, past the Zirconium Building. Out of Hatton Gardens through Kunzite: past Wyandot Avenue, past Bismarck Avenue, past Vincennes Avenue. Onto Columbus. Onto Millionaire’s Mile, past the New Year banners on the lampposts and the Christmastime tinsel.

 

Impossible to find parking in this piece of sh*t borough.

 

Found it next to the Gender Role Doll outlet on East L9. Snow-filth slurry leaving the dope in the jacket and the boots crunching crossing the street. Gold-on-black store outlets: Gaulle, Max Renda. GoPostal truck guy down the road with packed water bottles by the CBN broadcasting headquarters, tourist-types trying to get a peek through the windows, see if they could get on camera.

 

They had the ice skating rink out. Big statue of Poseidon, halfway in the ground, trident held high. The tree. Golden tree, trees and tinsel.

And f*cking crowds.

 

Of course he wanted to meet at Columbus Center.

 

“I hate this f*cking place.”

 

Guy in a suit and a Swingers cap nearly bumped into them while they were standing by the Uganda flag, told them to watch where they were going.

 

Kaz, “We were f*cking standing here, moron!”

 

“Whatever.”

 

“You were walking!”

 

Abbot with his hands in his pockets surveying the crowd.

 

Nope.

 

Nope.

 

Nope.

 

There.

 

There.

 

Could’ve seen Achban off from a mile ‘cause the man was shaved bald, but no, had a beanie with brim on. Leather blazer buttoned up, fingerless gloves, luggage. And a buddy.

 

“You know him?” Abbot asked.

 

“What?”

 

“Kaz, that guy.”

 

“Oh.” Squinted. “Is he with Achban?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Gray parka over a denim jacket over a white sweater. Jeans, sneakers with straps instead of laces. White cheese cutter flat cap. Smoking. Kaz thought a moment, eyes lit up: “Oh, yeah.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah, that’s Ignatiy. Ivanov, I think.”

 

“Don’t know him.”

 

“Oh, he goes way back, man. He sells coke. I think he’s a twelve stepper? My dealer knows him.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Back in Hove Beach this guy got hit by a taxi. Ignat is across the street, he crosses just to help kick the sh*t out that guy. He’s a good guy, I think he works with… there was Alonso Goralski. Ivan Sapozhnik, you met him? This guy Kamayshev, too, a bunch of others.”

 

“Oh yeah.” That meant he was high up. Tattoos.

 

No surprises.

 

It was getting late.

 

They swam through the crowd to get to them.

 

“Я вырос с очень старомодной философией. Я узнал, насколько это токсично. Говорят, вы наследуете насилие.” That was Ignatiy. Raspy, peaky voice - still soft.

 

Achban, “Что ж, главное, что ты остановился.”

 

“И я сделал! Вот почему я пошел на терап--”

 

“Achban!” Abbot.

 

Achban turned. Eyes raised a moment, and then they were back. “Hey.”

 

“Ackie Ackie Ackie!” Kassian.

 

Achban looked at Kaz a moment.

 

Ignat said “Oh, wow! Privet, oh my god, how you doing!”

 

He outstretched his arms, lit cigarette in his mouth, and he hugged Abbot.

 

Abbot had never met him. “Okay.”

 

“I heard you got the Cavalcade. Beautiful car, hehe.” Little chuckle. Guy over-enunciated every vowel, kept a smile on. “What color is she?”

 

Blinked. Kassian said “It’s black, Ignasha.”

 

And the mood flickered a little. Ignat extended a hand, and Kassian shook: “I’m very sorry to hear about your father.”

 

Kassian nodded. “The Cavalcade is black.”

 

“What’s he doing here?” Abbot asked Achban.

 

Ignatiy said “He was here a little longer he expected. Is no big deal though, this city a good place to be. I love it.” That’s how you could tell he wasn’t from Liberty. “The Cavalcade, how is she? I have an Uber. Beige Rebla, yes? I love this baby. I used to think I need new car, but no no, I love her--”

 

“We gotta get going,” Achban said. Put on a smile, Abbot didn’t trust those anymore. “Abbie, where’s the car?”

 

“You need help carrying the bags, Acko?” Kassian asked.

 

“No.” Achban started walking, “Where’s the car, Abbot?”

 

“By the doll store on the corner.” Turned to Ignasha, “Nice meeting you.”

 

Ignasha said “You too! You too, man.” To Achban, “Счастливого пути, друг мой.”

 

Kaz said “Эй, когда я вернусь, ты знаешь Вадима?”

 

“Тот друг Эдика, да?”

 

“Он хочет запустить проект. Вы ему звоните.”

 

Abbot and Achban were already walking.

 

Abbot asked Kassian, “Why’s he here?”

 

Achban said “What took you so f*cking long? He was around. He wants me to scan some photos for him.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“I have f*cking sh*t to do, I want to get out of town. What, Benny calls me--”

 

“What’s wrong with Eugene?”

 

“I hope that polyglot f*ck chokes. Where the f*ck is your car?”

 

Through the crowd. Kassian followed.

 

To the car.

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

 

Edited January 20, 2024 by slimeball supreme

[slimeball supreme]

Stories

 

“Listen, listen. The way it is on the f*ckin’ streets--”

 

“Let me just--”

 

“The way it is on the f*ckin’ streets, the way it f*cking is, the way it is--”

 

“I wasn’t trying to offend you, Spenz.”

 

“Go f*ck yourself, you ain’t tried to offend me, f*ck- you- they--”

 

“Can we just take--”

 

“I want to set the f*cking record straight. You believe that? You believe that? You seriously believe that f*ckin’ phony? That f*ckin’ phony? It’s all fugaz’. All fugaz’.”

 

“He just said--”

 

“I don’t got a bodyguard. I don’t got nobody on my body. And I don’t need it neither, because when you’re from the f*ckin’ neighborhood you got guys eatcha’ dick off. Eatcha’ dick off. And what, because he’s written books?”

 

“I’m just referring to my notes here.”

 

“Notes don’t mean sh*t. Where I come from, notes don’t mean sh*t. I was always proud a’ my heritage. Never lied about that. Never once. And on the street dey’re afraid a- you know what? You know what?”

 

“What, Spencer?”

 

“I killed people wid’ a bat. I killed people wid’ a gun. I killed people wid’ a machine gun. I know it all. I killed people wid’ a knife. I chopped f*ckers up. That’s easy for me. I killed 6, 7 people. And I’m always honest. I’m always honest.”

 

“Well--”

 

“No, no. No. I’m always honest. I never said that what you said about the name thing. I never went by a different name. Never lied- I’m a proud f*ckin’ Albanian. But the Gambetti family, on the street, they respected me anyways because of da’ reputations I acquired.”

 

Latrell in his cramped little bedroom under the covers of his bed. Scar was basically healed. Kept the bandages on anyways; gash concealed, lying there in his trunks. Just swapped them out, earbuds in, Phat Chips bag on the floor, mom out in the living room where he’d smoke where she was watching her ‘stories’.

 

Spencer ‘Spenzo’ Kazazi was this ‘Derney Shore, Lennox Island-type guinea motherf*cker that stood maybe at female height. Kind of person who works out to compensate. White satin button-up he’d sort of tactically undone to the chest level to show off hair and muscle definition, greased up slicked hair. Headphones around his neck.

 

He was the preeminent 90’s hitter for the Gambetti crime family, under the purview of soldado-cum-capo Roy Zito.

 

Slack jawed interviewer who mostly did rappers, maybe Persian or Arab with a high fade in a tailored suit and a fitted cap, just kind of staring and looking at cue cards.

 

“Okay,” interviewer said.

 

Spencer was pissed. “Kazallo. What kind of f*ckin’- euh- no, no, no, never. Never. Never faked my name, never went by Kazallo, never claimed I was Italian. My friend, I did- first of all, I ain’t no rat. Okay? I did two years in prison in f*ckin’ Honduras, my friend.”

 

“Yeah it says here--”

 

“Your notes can go f*ck themselves. I’m the record. I done sh*t that would make a smaller man cry. Okay? And I only cry at funerals. Okay? Okay. You put that sh*t down. Never for nothin’.”

 

“Well--”

 

“You even f*ckin’ sayin’ youse got the gall to say- I can’t even f*ckin’ believe this- I have never lied. Okay. Not to nobody.”

 

“Not to prosecutors?”

 

“Are you gonna act clever? You nobody. Are you gonna act clever? Yo, believe me when I say this, I never lied about my ethnicity. Never said I had no different name. That guy has a hardon for me. Must be. When it comes to haters I never even think about ‘em. I do this for the kids.”

 

Latrell had seen videos of this guy and another guy. Ricky Spoleto, whose brother got bombed out at his gas depot. Convinced him to find god, to talk to people. Start doing motivational speeches. He’d already moved to San Andreas in the 90’s and written a book, but it really hits home when you lose someone you love.

 

Him and his brother, Ricky said, they were the biggest earners in the city. They organized an entire tax fraud scheme. Basically started the Russian mafia by themselves. Ricky did a ‘never have I ever’ video on ElectricHit and namedropped all these guys: Old Man Gio the Stoat, Baldhead Vin, Mac Panza, Pax the Peacemaker, Jon Gravelli. Senile old Vinny Bohan in his bathrobes and the Oddmother front boss.

 

It was all f*cking stupid, but Latrell was learning.

 

These mob guys loved names. Frankie was always talking about Denny Mondello and his father and those guys from Badfellas. Phil with those Irish guys. Looked up Frankie’s name and hadn’t gotten many hits. Shot some college kid in Algonquin by accident in the Nineties.

 

Looked up Phil and got jack sh*t.

 

“The people you have in here, they make up stories. They do. Ricky Spoleto has made a dime sayin’ he’s somethin’ he ain’t. I ain’t never done that. I’m a man of my word, I try to help the kids, I try to be a benefit. I don’t regret nothin’ I never did because I couldn’t help no kids if I never didn’t. I was never a witness.”

 

“My notes--”

 

“Your notes written by a f*ggot, by any chance?”

 

“No, it’s the internet.”

 

“The internet is lies, often.”

 

“You wrote a book?” Trying to change the subject.

 

“You said that. You said that already. You can buy the book, too. ‘BETRAYED OF HONOR: The Treachery of the Mafia’. You can get it on the internet or from Spines. You gotta get that sh*t from the source. And this is the unadulterated account of the Gambetti crime family. Numero uno. You know where you draw water from?”

 

“Where?”

 

“The well.”

 

“...Yeah?”

 

“That’s right.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I said this on WKTT. I challenged Roy Zito to a boxing match. And he ain’t done it! He ain’t done it. If he’s so reformed washin’ f*ckin’ laundries, so reformed, so reformed, then this shouldn’t be an issue. But he’s a pussy! I slapped his ass on 18th Avenue. I coulda’ been boss.”

 

“In--”

 

“I coulda’. But it’s all last names. All that matters is your surname.”

 

“Hold on. Can I ask you about- when it comes to murder.”

 

“Easy.”

 

“Easy?”

 

“Murderin’ is easy. That’s my job. I killed 15 people. I can talk about that until the cows come home. Which--”

 

Video cut short.

 

Black screen a moment.

 

Phone started ringing.

 

DARREN

 

Latrell darted up.

 

Phone to his ear.

 

On the other line: “Latrell?”

 

“Hey. Logan.”

 

“Hey, yeah. Calling to check in. You at home?”

 

“Yeah. Yeah.”

 

“I’m at gun club; paperwork. You know. Everything still in motion?”

 

“Yeah.” Sniffed, moved a little, “Yeah, yeah.”

 

“You busy?”

 

“No. Nah, was just doin’ some research.”

 

“...Yeah?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Reading or--”

 

“Yeah, reading. Some books and sh*t. Mafia and sh*t. For the thing tomorrow.”

 

Short pause. “Yeah? Like what?”

 

“This dude, uh, Spencer Kazazi.”

 

“Yeah.” Pause on the other end. “He’s an interesting character.”

 

“I need some sh*t to say, right? So I got some names and sh*t, son, we talk, we get some rapport. You can do some research, too. You good on mafia sh*t?”

 

“...Sure.”

 

“Yeah. Like Spencer Kazazi, like Ricky Spoleto, real hard niggas. Like that.”

 

“They do TV documentaries, right? For CNT and sh*t.”

 

“Yeah. But they also do videos and sh*t. So I was thinkin’ I got this familiarity, they gonna be impressed. And- and that’s what them niggas said.”

 

“Who?” Realized, “Oh, you mean Chris. Hey, do you want me to run through the story again?”

 

Shifted upright on the bed, “Yeah, yeah. Nah, it’s cool. I got that sh*t down.”

 

“My name?”

 

“Son, that sh*t’s easy. I got the fake name in my phone.”

 

“Okay. Surname.”

 

Thought a moment. “It was Whyano, right?”

 

“Yep. Okay. And why--”

 

“Whyano with a Y?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Copy.”

 

“Why’s it a bad idea to go to the car dealership for firearms?”

 

“You got the better connect, you got some untraceables sh*t. Good idea to keep that sh*t away, from the whoever-the-f*ck. Keep this lowkey. I mean, I already talked to Phil.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Deadass. And he was dead sayin’ was a good idea and then he called me back goin’ he got the OK from Frankie and ‘em. Said I trust, then he trust.”

 

“Excellent. Okay. Then we got no problems.”

 

“We good, then?”

 

“How’d we meet?”

 

“Oh.” Latrell rubbed his temple, “Goddamn it, the f*ck was it? Linked up at… f*ck, linked where. Linked up you was selling me f*ckin’ ecstasy or something?”

 

“Benzos. And it was your cousin.”

 

“My cousin- sh*t, we talked about this.”

 

“Yeah. So don’t matter if he’s real or not.”

 

Rehearsed, “They ain’t meetin’ him.”

 

“That’s right, they ain’t meetin’ him. And you ain’t gotta keep this straight for too long. Right?”

 

“Right.”

 

“Good. Good. Tomorrow’s New Years Eve, day after’s a new day. We wrap this up in a month or two tops. And look, I gotta talk to you. About--”

 

“We gotta?”

 

“What, you busy?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Yeah, what? You were reading a book?”

 

Latrell sighed, “Yeah, and I’d like to get back to that book.”

 

“You gotta make them talk forever, okay?”

 

Squinted. “Yeah?”

 

“Anything and everything forever. Make them spill so many f*ckin’ guts you need to call an ambulance, but look. You wanna head down this road, right? Dropping names, making sure they spill that. You gotta make sure, like, it’s all correct.”

 

“It’s correct.”

 

“No, I mean… sh*t, I guess.”

 

“These guys is real murderers.”

 

“Too many f*ckin’ court dates with OC guys have gone to sh*t because of unreliable witnesses or informants running their mouths or whatever. Okay? So just, like… believe everything they say to the point they wanna keep saying it. But not nobody else.”

 

“I understand.” Latrell didn’t.

 

“Latrell!”

 

Latrell’s mom. Latrell ignored.

 

“So you got the date,” Logan said. “I’ll do whatever. You just gotta get these guys running their mouths about everything. Just make sure it’s sh*t they wanna hear.”

 

“Yeah, yeah.”

 

“Christopher gave you the be-all-end-all, just incriminate incriminate incriminate. Anything we get on those tapes, ironclad, anything, that’s--”

 

“Latrell, baby, who you talking to?!”

 

“--okay?”

 

“Can you- hold on, sorry son, can you run that again?”

 

“Run what? Run what you need to say?”

 

“No, no--”

 

“The murders, the guys you got hit at the restaurant. The Albanians, the two civilians. The sign language interpreter and her father, you remember?”

 

“No, I know that.”

 

“And any connections--”

 

“No, I remember. Just about the tapes.”

 

“Latrell, honey, hey--”

 

Closed his eyes. “Logan, son, I need to call you back.”

 

“I can’t- okay. Just be quick.”

 

“Yeah, copy.”

 

Hung up.

 

Tossed his phone onto the carpet. Legs tangled in the blanket a moment before he kicked the f*cking thing off the bed, spun himself around and nearly stepped in the chip packet. Kicked that, pulled a crumpled up black shirt off the floor and ripped the earbuds out.

 

“Honey--”

 

Latrell opened the door.

 

Glared.

 

TV buzzed.

 

“Momma, what the f*ck?”

 

Moms shifted, brows flickered.

 

“I’m on the f*cking phone. You f*ckin’ stupid, son, I’m on the f*ckin’ phone?”

 

“I’m sorry baby--”

 

“I’m on the f*cking phone. Chill the f*ck out, you embarassing the f*ck outta me, just shut the f*ck up a f*ckin’ moment until I get the f*ck off the phone. That simple?”

 

“I’m sorry, honey, I’m sorry--”

 

“Just chill, son, god f*ckin’ damn it, don’t gotta son me the f*ck out- I’m on the f*ckin’ phone. Okay?”

 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’ll be quiet a moment.”

 

“Just stop it with the funny sh*t.”

 

Stared.

 

TV buzzed.

 

Latrell shut the door.

 

***

 

Was New Year’s Eve.

 

WTEZ buzzing on the radio in the back room of AnarKiss. Sports radio. Football. Frankie rubbing his forehead with his palm, no fingers, elbows on the desk looking at nothing in particular.

 

“If New England wins again I’m gonna f*ckin’ kill myself.”

 

Reuben sitting at the desk said “Minchia, chill the f*ck out.”

 

“Remember when they won three in a row?”

 

“Two in a row,” Phil said. “It was Tampa Bay and, uh… Pounders, I think. They got ‘03 and ‘04 but they didn’t get ‘02.”

 

“But they got it in ‘01. They got it in ‘01.”

 

Reuben, “A lot of awful sh*t happened in 2001. Throw that year in the f*cking garbage. Throw it in the f*cking trash.”

 

Latrell on the felt couch - had his legs up before but took ‘em off when Frankie told him to stop. Latrell saw an in. “There was a big Lupisella bust in ‘01 too, right? Half your squad got rounded up. All the bigheads, they got Loopy, they got Vincent Lupisella.”

 

Blinked, “Yeah, sure, but I was thinkin’ more about 9/11.”

 

“Two’s bad enough,” Frankie spat. “Only we can do two in a row. That’s somethin’ only we can do.”

 

Phil said “We who?”

 

“Liberty can get a thousand rings in a f*ckin’ row, just not Botolph, man, not f*ckin’ Botolph.”

 

“I remember,” Latrell said, “that whole bust. Moe Schwartz was using his f*ckin’ spreadsheets and sh*t to communicate for a f*ckin’ year he was that f*ckin’ paranoid. And it worked, too. I caught that sh*t in a documentary. You told me about Moe too, Phil, right?”

 

Frankie fiddled with the radio. Now it was rock.

 

Phil looked at him. Little eye. Just nodded.

 

“It ain’t the same without Beau and the Toe,” Reuben said. “They made WTEZ worth f*ckin’ listening to. I don’t even know this garbling little f*ck.”

 

“Radio in general ain’t the same since they took Greg & Tony off the air.” Phil was by the water cooler, which he weren’t using, just kind of standing there.

 

Reuben, “They were on, uh… satellite radio a while.”

 

“Yeah, but then they took Tony off for all that racist sh*t he said on Bleeter.”

 

Frankie said “I ain’t heard of that.”

 

“Something about a black woman. No offense, Latrell.”

 

Latrell rubbed the corners of his mouth.

 

They were waiting for f*cking Logan.

 

Heater buzzing. Phil was closest to it, maybe why he was standing there.

 

Rod was outside in the freezing f*cking cold. He drew the short straw.

 

Titus knocked on the office door. Halfway open, store was closed. “He here yet?”

 

Got a grunt back from Reuben, “We’d know.”

 

Stared a moment.

 

Nobody doing nothing.

 

Titus cracked a smile. “You people are real f*ckin’ cheery, huh?”

 

Frankie said “Shut up.”

 

“I’m feelin’ the holiday spirit. What is this, football season?”

 

Ruben, “Big game.”

 

“Playoffs?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“LC make it?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then who gives a f*ck?”

 

“Good bookie season,” Frankie said.

 

“Ain’t your business.”

 

“It’s everyone’s business if you wanna kick up. Get a good Christmas bonus, good tidings, postseason’s the biggest season of the year.”

 

“Not the World Series?”

 

“I don’t know. Maybe. When the Swingers are playing. Hell, money’s out the roof when Liberty makes it anywhere. Everyone bets on hometown.”

 

“Was never my bag.”

 

“Well yeah, we know that,” Phil said. “It’s simple math.”

 

Titus stopped.

 

Smirked.

 

Went to say something.

 

Didn’t. Just said “Okay, then.”

 

Phil’s fingers spidering out on his scalp. Looked to Latrell, looked back. Latrell looked to him, bugged Swingers fitted cap covering the bandage, then looked back to nothing.

 

Took maybe another few minutes for Rodney to knock on the back door. Titus came from the front and answered it, and Rod was grinning, and Rod said “Drizzy’s here.”

 

Everyone got up.

 

Back alley of the tattoo parlor started up almost like a driveway or a parking lot on the road perpendicular to Sound Span. On 158th Avenue the place was fenced off; across the street from the Italian Ice place and the Minstrel Superette. Used as an employee parking lot, but Frankie and the guys still parked out the front just to show off to the traffic.

 

One of the artists parked his Shiitzu hatchback right up the back, this kid Diego. Was there.

 

Flax colored Perennial. Rodney signalling it in with his arms like he was ferrying a plane on the runway.

 

Latrell with his hands in the jacket pockets. Phil right next to him. Leaned on over, said “He cool?”

 

Frankie heard, and said “Yeah, I know him.”

 

Latrell blinked.

 

Did he?

 

He hadn’t said that.

 

He f*cking knew him?

 

Swallowed it. Shrugged, “I ain’t heard nothin’ but good things.”

 

Perennial backed up and Rodney came up to the driver side rubbing his hands grinning. Bomber jacket zipped up to the neck, slap-slapped the car door. Door opened.

 

Logan - or Darren, whatever. Had this pubescent mustache he said was “part of the legend,” backwards dad cap. Neck gaiter pulled down and sunglasses pulled above the eyes, brown t-shirt under a baby blue hoodie under a cobalt blue ProLaps windbreaker. Gray cargo pants and unbranded gray sneakers. Skeleton gloves.

 

The hat was bugged. He was wired up, so was Latrell. The car was fitted with microphones in the front and in the back. And they’d done audio tests, pitch f*cking perfect. Any more microphones and the place’d be a film set.

 

Frankie came out with arms outstretched, “Dee Dunks, my f*cking brother!”

 

Reuben, “Dee Dee, che si dice?”

 

Latrell had pitched the name Darren Whyano to these guys and they didn’t know sh*t, didn’t react. Guessed they did their homework, since they had nicknames for the f*ck now.

 

Logan went in for the hug and faked it out for a handshake. Turned for Reuben, LC Wrath cap. Darren said “Haya’ doin’, cuz?”

 

Was Phil broke the ice: “You guys know each others?”

 

Frank said “My brother Johnny Doof knows Darren. And a buncha’ other guys out in Dukes, too, I talked to a few guys. Guys here in Rambler Beach. Oh, and Bledar too, that Albo f*ck. Ain’t that right, Dunks?”

 

Darren said “I know everybody.”

 

Played with the cap on his head and repositioned it and pat him on the head, “Football season, huh?”

 

Set the thing straight and Darren looked like a ghost ‘cause he might’ve f*cked the mic. “You said it, you said it.”

 

“Remember when they was goin’ about LS buyin’ the Wrath? What the f*ck that woulda’ been like, f*ckin’ Broker Corkers all over f*ckin’ again.”

 

Reuben, “Damon Standing playin’ anywhere except the Pastures Sports f*ckin’ Complex is f*ckin’ hell on f*ckin’ Earth.”

 

Darren grinned through it, “You said it.”

 

And Latrell grinned, and Latrell did a little shadowboxing, and Latrell said “True hortical don ting, right?”

 

Nobody reacted.

 

“I got everything I could get,” Darren said. “But you know--”

 

“Where?”

 

“Where? Where, in the trunk, where.”

 

Phil said “You got what in the trunk? The stuff? Just in the trunk?”

 

Darren nodded.

 

“You wanna get f*ckin’ busted with an arsenal on the expressway? The f*ck you doin’, keepin’ pieces in the trunk.”

 

“You gotta chill.”

 

“Your car’s like, f*ckin’, eighty percent f*ckin’ glass. No sensible f*ckin’ guy’s gonna keep a buncha’ f*ckin’ guns in the trunk--”

 

Frank said “Settle down.”

 

Titus was still by the door, “Settle down, Jelly.”

 

“I know all kinds of people,” Darren said. “I just- you know, we gonna use ‘em we gonna use ‘em.”

 

Frankie said “Well?”

 

Darren nodded.

 

Popped the trunk.

 

Like they emptied out the f*cking evidence locker of every piece they could find. Spread out on a tarp like they did after drug busts. A thousand pieces, automatics and semi-automatics and rifles. Five Nochs, five Chitarras, this huge f*ck-off revolver. More and more and more. Pistols and submachines and Frankie squealed like a kid and clasped his hands together.

 

“You like?”

 

“What the f*ck I done to deserve this? Madon’, f*ckin’ bless you lord, holy sh*t.”

 

Darren, “Thank the mayor, baby.”

 

Phil said “Why?”

 

“Gun laws keep the supply high. I get it everywhere. I got love for my paisanos.”

 

“La Manna ain’t even a real Italian,” Reuben said. “Guy’s a commie fag. We don’t take f*ckin’ credit for the mayor--”

 

But Frankie shushed them, and put his hands flat on the trunk, and said “I don’t even know where to begin.” Hands brushed along polymer and steel.

 

“Why you need heavy artillery?” Darren asked.

 

Frankie didn’t even hesitate, “I said we wanted to do something big, we’re doing something big.”

 

Reuben said “We need maybe two pieces for every guy on this, maybe.”

 

Way too f*cking excessive but good to let them dig themselves in a hole. Latrell said “Absolutely.”

 

“Got put onto this thing,” Frankie said. “We’re moving on it in a month or two. Big money.”

 

“Yeah?” Darren asked. He knew already. “What, you hitting a f*ckin’ bread box, we makin’ mad mooga?”

 

“Drugs,” Frankie said. “We’ve been hustling for way too long but got put onto some sh*t. And it pisses off some guys we don’t like so much no more so we’re down for it.”

 

Phil edged in, crowd forming around the guns. “Just be careful who we say this sh*t to.”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Too many pigeons, not enough stools. Lotta’ birds tweet for anything nowadays, no matter how small. Don’t matter what the f*ck--”

 

“You gotta chill, Philly.”

 

Latrell joked, “Chill Phil.”

 

But Frank was back on the non sequiturs, on the guns, “They’re wrapped like a f*cking treat.” Brushed one pistol - beehive barrel like there was a pic rail on every side. “I like this one.”

 

Reuben leaned in. Darren pointed, “I don’t know about that one.”

 

“I ain’t seen this before.”

 

“Vom Feuer AAP-ZW. Or the AP Pistol. Burstfire thing, converts to full auto, successor to old Zivilwaffe models. Not so hotso though, thing’s unreliable like f*ck. Used to be a fed PDW ‘til they dropped it after some thing in Los Santos. f*cking art center and a helo crash.”

 

Phil quipped “Mister Professional.”

 

Frankie said “Why you sellin’ guns that work like sh*t?”

 

AP Pistol was to the edge of the mat. More than thirty sidearms in there, a bunch of two-handers lined up at the top. AKs and CSRs. Darren did a salesman grin and said “We all got duds. I want you gettin’ the good stuff.” Moved a little further past the H&L forty-fives and semi-autos, “Thing was supposed to compete with the Twenty-eighT. Both work with armor piercing rounds.”

 

Rodney was still by the gate but nearly shouted “Teflon coated f*ckin’ cop killers, huh?”

 

Darren repeated, “He said teflon coated cop killers, these’ll kill a cop. You killing cops?”

 

Frankie hesitated for way too long. “Last time one of our guys went around popping cops they cracked down like a f*ckin’ whip on everything. Nobody could earn. Cop killin’s bad for business, you bring that to a boss and they’re gonna put a stop to it and you immediately. That’s Pegorino f*ckin’ cowboy sh*t.”

 

“This a boss sanctioned thing?” Darren asked.

 

“Yeah, we got the bosses down,” Latrell said.

 

Reuben was playing with the guns. Hands on a Mexican submachine gun like a knock-off Yutzi, Darren quickly said “That’s a Pedernal 2JD, that’s a good piece.”

 

Frankie sighed. “Look--”

 

Phil sniffed. Trying to get him to stop.

 

Frankie didn’t. “We got into some business,” he said. “You heard about what happened up on Morgan Avenue?”

 

Squinted. “No,” Darren said. He knew, but wanted him to talk more.

 

“That was us,” Frankie said. “I mean, I went down there myself. We pulled some CAT-10s we pulled off some beaner we know and we sprayed these two Albo guys screwed us over. And it was a real f*ck.”

 

Phil sighed.

 

“What happened?” Darren said.

 

“Oh, you know. We thought we was getting into some pot these guys had. BC tight-packed hydro f*ckin’ good kush, haha. Only the guy told us to whack some guy off, right?”

 

Latrell nearly laughed. “Yeah, that sucked.”

 

“Yeah, turns out it was all bullsh*t. They just wanted him gone because he was on some poker machines he wanted. But we whacked him the f*ck out for that.”

 

Darren leaned against the car, and Darren grinned.

 

Phil said “Should we be saying this?”

 

Frankie said “He’s a friend of a friend of ours, Jelly, he’s good.”

 

“I just don’t know--”

 

Latrell snapped out a “Chill.”

 

Phil took a step back.

 

“Who was it?” Darren asked. “The guy.”

 

“Who? The Albanian? I don’t remember.”

 

“No, the guy you whacked out. Was he Albanian?”

 

“Nah. This guy, Viv the Chick. Messina guy.”

 

Reuben asked “Was he made?” Would’ve been smart to know.

 

“No. I don’t think so. Or maybe? But we got Latrell and a buddy of his to pop him out at a f*ckin’ Burger Shot--”

 

“Bolt Burger,” Latrell said.

 

“Yeah yeah, whatever.” Frankie was always two steps behind. “But yo, when we did in the Albanian f*ckin’ guy. We went in there, we kick the f*ckin’ door in, we just spray the f*ckin’ joint, we make this little f*ck’s head like a f*ckin’ mash potato f*ckin’ dinner, we did him like. Didn’t even have to wear a mask.”

 

“Nobody’s gettin’ punished no more,” Reuben said. “They’re gettin’ complacent.”

 

Latrell said “This wouldn’t have happened in the old days, huh?”

 

They ignored him. Frankie said “Hey, look. People been sayin’ the glory days are over since the 70’s. That this is a dyin’ game since the 80’s. But here I f*ckin’ am, more for us. Old guys want to pussy out… that’s what I told my father. Old guys don’t wanna pull no weight, make no earn. Make nobody. But everything’s f*cked up, everyone’s scared, everyone’s bein’ a pussy.”

 

Phil was getting closer to Latrell.

 

Darren said “So this job is endorsed by your dad?”

 

Frankie shrugged. “We got posthumous f*ckin’ sanction for the hit. For both hits. God, it’s f*ckin’ cold, huh?”

 

“From who?”

 

“Titus was talkin’ to Mark Lupisella. Talked to Giordano, good luck to him--”

 

“From the radio?” Darren asked.

 

Reuben laughed. “No, you retard.”

 

“Yeah, retard.” Frankie put an arm on Darren’s shoulder, “There’s two Giordanos. I don’t know how many times we gotta tell peoples this. There’s Girolamo, that’s Jerry with a J. He’s the one on the radio. And then there’s Gerardo, that’s Gerry with a G. He moves weight.”

 

“So he’s guilty for the sh*t he’s pulling?” Darren asked.

 

“Oh, sure. Who cares, though? Hope he beats the rap. If not, he’s done time before. He’s got like, f*ckin’, sixty grand worth a’ heroin stashed in his attic somewheres, he told me. And he said if he goes down, f*ck it, you know. He can get that cut and double the worth, make a good haul for the lawyer fees.”

 

Darren didn’t even reply. He didn’t need to.

 

He was just f*cking yabbering.

 

Phil was next to Latrell.

 

Leaned in.

 

Phil said “I don’t like this guy.”

 

Latrell stepped back. To the wall. “Why?”

 

“He’s askin’ all these f*ckin’ questions.”
 

Latrell shrugged, “Frankie’s answerin’ them.”

 

“Frankie’s the biggest f*cking retard on god’s green earth. We need to get him to shut the f*ck up.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Why? Am I f*ckin’ nuts?”

 

Squinted.

 

“Frankie would be on f*ckin’ TV if he could. This guy has his ears open there’ll be some happy detectives. So many spooks everywhere it’s like a haunted f*cking house.”

 

Latrell thought a moment. Looked to Phil. And said “I think he’s okay.”

 

Phil looked in his eyes, “You sure?”

 

“Phil. This the only thing that matters. You the only thing that matters. I wanna f*ck this up?”

 

Phil thought.

 

Phil nodded.

 

Latrell said “I’m just grateful this nigga wanna hear some stories. All these niggas got is stories.”

 

Phil’s eyes sorta flickered there. Because all he had was stories, too.

 

But he smiled. “I hope these… okay.”

 

All they had was stories. And Latrell was sick to f*cking death of it.

 

Stepped forward again. Into the semicircle formed around the back of the Perennial.

 

Frankie was yabbering. “--always knew Gordy Blinks - you know Blinks?”

 

Darren said “Gordon Blanda,” for the tape.

 

“Well Philly did some digging and the understandin’s that they got peoples all over the place. At the place we’re gonna hit up. We’re tight with some guys and we ain’t with others. Obviously Rodney’s our boy--”

 

“My dad Dewey was Jon Gravelli’s brother,” Rodney beamed.

 

“All kinds of OG sh*t,” Latrell added.

 

Darren asked “You made?”

 

Rodney scoffed. That counted as a reply.

 

“There are people in the organization these days,” Frankie said. “You probably know this, they don’t even want to get made no more. They get given the opportunity, they say no. It’s an honor, but they say no.”

 

“It’s disgraceful,” Reuben said.

 

“I don’t blame them. The attention people get over nothing is insane. This one Messina guy, captain, Shelly Errigo, he’s one of Bernie Bing Bong’s top guys. You know Bernie Bing? All that bird sh*t on his car he never cleaned. But Shelly E’s building his house. Really nice house--”

 

Latrell, “I thought we was beefing with the Messinas?” Both asking for the tape and genuinely asking. Caught Darren grinning in the corner of his eye.

 

“We’re friends with everybody,” Frankie said.

 

“We ain’t swearin’ off one guy because he’s friends with some asshole,” Reuben added. “Some good people in that organization.”

 

“This ain’t Ballas and Families, this is business. Look, though, listen. As soon as he builds his house, the feds got a hard-on. You ain’t allowed to do nothin’. They acted like he was Jon Gravelli, they had every bug on him, twenty-four hour surveillance. And all I know this guy does is bookies and a little taste of construction.”

 

Latrell smiled. “I think if Old Man Gio weren’t in the pen, man, he woulda’ killed whoever popped his nephew Rocco.” Spoleto quote.

 

Blank faces.

 

Reuben said “Okay?”

 

“That’s neither here nor there,” Frankie sighed. “I’m just saying--”

 

“But that’s how things are,” Latrell said. He quickly added “These days,” and nodded.

 

Darren shot him a vicious goddamn glare.

 

“But,” Latrell kept on. “That was all crazy. With him. Yo, I’m just saying. With Gay Tony and Rocco. They both get whacked out. Gay Tony, yeah. Son, Loopy straight up castrated--”

 

Frankie laughed, “Oh yeah. I told you that?”

 

Reuben laughed too. Darren said “What?”

 

“This spic was working for him. We cut his dick off. This Mexican. That was funny.”

 

“You shoulda’ seen him,” Reuben grinned.

 

Darren’s eyes wide, “What was--”

 

“Didn’t--” Latrell stopped himself a moment. Paused. “Didn’t Gay Tony straight up f*ck Roy Zito?”

 

Frankie said “Woah!”

 

Reuben said “Ho, oofah!”

 

Philly said “Hold on, hold on.”

 

“That was a rumor,” Frankie said. “Started by that f*ckin’ cokehead f*ckin’ sleaze. I always hated that c*nt, her little f*ckin’ posse--”

 

“It’s a rumor,” Rodney said. “Against a friend in the life.”

 

Titus from the back door, “She would tell you anything to anybody for any reason!”

 

“We all got our problems with the guy,” Frankie sighed. “But he’s a friend of ours. You don’t say sh*t like that. I ain’t gonna disgrace him.”

 

“If a f*ggot was working in any organization,” Phil said, “he’d be dead. He’d be dead before he got made. I know a made guy was outed out as a fag, he got his tongue pulled out his throat and his dick fed to him.”

 

Titus, “Yo, who you talkin’ about?”

 

“I don’t remember his name.”

 

He was coming closer, “Wasn’t he a ‘Derney guy?”

 

“Maybe?”

 

Rodney said “I heard that from Gefilte Joe. He was from ‘Derney. One of our guys, I think.”

 

Frankie, “When was that?”

 

“Before Roy was boss. See, if Roy was boss when he died, case’d be closed. Gays don’t kill their own kind, they got this f*ckin’ respect pride kinda’ thing.”

 

“If he’s in the closet he coulda’--”

 

“But he ain’t, anyway,” Rodney said. Real heavy. “But if he was boss, he woulda’ called that shot. I got my own problems with the man but he ain’t a ricchione.”

 

“Of course not,” Frankie said.

 

Latrell saw his time to strike.

 

“Spenzo Kazazi said he was.”

 

Reuben smirked.

 

Phil’s brow creased hard.

 

Frankie said “That guy?”

 

“Yeah,” Latrell went. “Son was Roy’s f*ckin’ right hand man, he did hits for him, piped niggas and batted niggas--”

 

Titus said “Oh yeah. He does those videos.”

 

“Every bird’s tweeting,” Phil laughed. “Sammy Bottino doin’ interviews out his prison cell. Trell, he ain’t important.”

 

“Roy and Spenz hardly knew each other.”

 

Dud. Dud f*cking dud.

 

“Sammy was legit,” Rodney said. “Spenzo? Va fungool. Spenzo tried to pretend he was Italian and threw out that phony f*ckin’ name, f*ckin’ Kazalo. But he can write his book or whatever the f*ck.”

 

“He was like 5’4.” Frankie frowned, “I met him once. Guy was f*cking annoying.”

 

Reuben, “Didn’t he get his ass beat at that rat Fredo Volpe’s club? Pillows?”

 

Laughing like hell, Titus uttered out a “Yeah. Big man!”

 

For maybe the third time Rodney repeated himself, “I got problems with Roy. But not the slander sh*t.”

 

Darren was barely factoring in. Said “But with the pieces--”

 

“I love Roy,” Frankie said. “He’s cosa nostra as f*ck.”

 

“He’s showy. With the San Gennaro sh*t, with the Christmas parties and the fireworks and this and that. And the showman bullsh*t, the f*cking suits, the f*cking Snapmatic and the press and the f*cking--”

 

“That’s true.”

 

Reuben said it too, “That’s true.”

 

“He's too f*ckin’ busy playin’ his goddamn cell phone to effectively lead. His social mediums.” Frank gave this big f*cking smirk. Real satisfied with that comment.

 

“It ain’t like the old days,” Latrell mused.

 

Nobody replied to him.

 

Darren asked “Does Roy got something to do with the port?”

 

Nobody replied to him.

 

“He’s a young boss,” Titus said.

 

“That’s true.” Frankie sniffed, “Guy was in diapers when he got the big seat.”

 

Phil, “Jimmy the Peg took the reigns when he was, like, f*ckin’ 35.”

 

Edge to it, “Well they ain’t even a real family anyways.”

 

Reuben, “Not anymore.”

 

Darren, “How do you mean?”

 

They ignored him. “I heard Zeets used to skim a little off the top with his old capo,” Reuben smiled.

 

Frankie, “Wouldn’t surprise me.”

 

“Outsourced. Did whatever with whoever.”

 

“You should do it with your own people.”

 

Phil, “That ain’t historical.”

 

“What? You save the real business for your own kind.”

 

“We never did it like that.”

 

Titus, “What, the Albanian kids on sports bikes f*ckin’ Tony Black’d call up, that guy the Chef? Give them a taste?”

 

Darren said “Who?” Ignored.

 

“Or the Irish,” Phil said.

 

“Haha!” Titus laughed, cruel laugh. “Okay.”

 

Rodney said “There’s truth to it.”

 

“Come on. Ride this f*cking old days bullsh*t.” Ironic. “You and your f*cking father.”

 

Phil glared. “You and yours.”

 

“My father did something.”

 

“Did he? Did he?”

 

“Yeah, yeah he did.”

 

“Probably worked together.”

 

“Who gives a sh*t? Albanians is more gangsters than them. Kalem, that pissant, he’s more gangster than them.”

 

Latrell said “Fellas, let’s--”

 

Phil said “We’re working with Latrell. That’s not--”

 

Reuben went “Careful.”

 

“Ginzos wanted muscle, they ripped on whoever--”

 

Frankie, “Ginzos?”

 

“You people. Greeks, Russians, Irish, Albanian, whoever. Don’t act like you don’t work outside your peoples.”

 

Reuben, “Roy worked with m--” stopped himself sharp. “Okay.”

 

Titus still laughing. Weren’t genuine laughter. “Like who?”

 

Phil, “Like Derrick McReary. Like Gerald McReary. Like my father.”

 

“Gilroy Donovan. Oh, boy! Oh, boy!”

 

“Don’t.”

 

“Don’t start on this sh*t. On nobodies.”

 

Sharper, “Don’t.”

 

“Oh, shut up.”

 

Frankie said “Shut up, Phil.”

 

“He’s got a point,” Reuben said.

 

Phil said “Don’t.”

 

“You want historical? Gil Donovan; scary Gil. Junkie, rat. Derrick; junkie, rat. John Jack McReary; junkie, rat.”

 

“They were not rats.”

 

“Witness stand testimony’s ratting. On Jon Gravelli--”

 

Rodney, “My great uncle--” like that meant anything.

 

“--that’s ratting.”

 

“John Jack, sure. Derrick, no. My father, no.”

 

“Derrick did f*ckin’ heroins and sh*t. Junkie sleaze.”

 

“No.”

 

“What your father did - you invoke him--”

 

“I don’t talk about him no more.”

 

Latrell said “Ease up,” to nobody.

 

“Why?” Titus asked.

 

“Oh, f*ck off.”

 

“Your dad was what? A junkie. A moron. What he did with made guys, on the side, with hoods. And he got clipped for it.”

 

“I am warning you--”

 

“You invoke him like he’s the Pope. Some junkie pissant Irish hood never fit to wipe nobody’s boots, but you never say his name no more. But you used to, all the time, my father my father my father, but you shut the f*ck up. Why? Oh, I know why.”

 

“Stop.”

 

“It’s simple math! Because maybe if he played his cards right, maybe if he didn’t work with retard junkie hoods on that classic mick bullsh*t kidnap racket, just maybe they wouldn’t have blown his head off.”

 

“I hope you f*cking die.”

 

“Maybe instead of a closed casket that motherless f*ck you invoke woulda’ died from the smack instead of his retard piece of sh*t decisions gettin’ him exactly where the f*ck he--”

 

Phil swung.

 

Phil connected.

 

Titus staggered.

 

Titus pounced.

 

Tackled him and got his knees to his abdomen, Phil bounced off the side of the Perennial, made Rodney jump the f*ck out the way with his hands up goin’ “Woah woah woah--”

 

Pummeled. Pummeled. Pummeled. Boxer fists right to the f*cking nose, to the chin, to the teeth, eye eye eye going “You hit me! Oh!”

 

Phil fighting, kicking, kicking his legs and kicking up loose gravel off the pavement while Frankie was laughing.

 

Darren tried getting in. Tried to break it up, going “Stop, stop--” but Phil kicked him back at the shin gritting his f*cking teeth.

 

Big grin from Reuben, “Let’s see some effort, come on!”

 

Rodney, “Phil, this guy’s a champ, he’s a boxing champ--”

 

Titus with the fist to the f*cking chin, f*cking uppercut, rubbing his face in the ground grabbing him by the hair.

 

Frankie, “Hey, okay, wrap it up.”

 

Titus hit him right in the f*cking neck, chest, forehead, forehead--
 

“Okay, that’s enough, Phil. That’s enough of that bullsh*t!”

 

Phil clawing at Titus’ face, Titus ripped the arm off--

 

“Hey! You gonna cut that out or what?”

 

Reuben still laughing. “You can take it down a notch, huh!”

 

Not doing nothing.

 

Standing there.

 

Phil was spitting blood.

 

“Phil, say uncle! Ya tough guy, just say--”

 

Latrell stared.

 

Pushed through Frankie, pushed through Darren backing up to the driver’s side, said “Knock it the f*ck off!”

 

Titus was slowing. Phil with his face pounded in, Phil blacked up, Phil bleeding out a f*cking gash near the cheek.

 

“Son, stop that sh*t, b. Son, Titus, dead that sh*t!”

 

Titus with his hand clutching Phil’s hair.

 

Grunted.

 

Dropped his head to the ground.

 

Got up.

 

Spat. Missed Phil, hit the ground. “You don’t touch me.”

 

Phil looked dead.

 

Frankie laughing, “You okay, Titus?”

 

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m fine.”

 

“You got some f*cking balls, Jelly!” Rodney grinning ear to ear, “My god.”

 

Titus rubbed his face. Where Phil hit him, wiped blood out the gums. Weren’t his. “Arm muscles f*cked to sh*t. In the elbow pit. Mick goddamn faccia de gatz.”

 

The cop, Darren, he was at the front of the car now. As far as possible. Chirped a little “You okay?”

 

Was meant for Phil. Titus said “Don’t worry about me.”

 

Latrell knelt down.

 

Phil looked at him through swollen eyes.

 

Phil laughed.

 

Latrell didn’t.

 

***

 

Ice cold Beam can on Phil’s face. Looked like mashed potatoes. Latrell next to him on the sofa, not touching, just looking. Phil staring off into the distance.

 

Logan had left. They’d gotten what they wanted but said nothing else.

 

Titus had gone too. His Coquette out from the front.

 

Frankie and Reuben by the radio again. Business. Business they wouldn’t explain to Latrell, “But the fella out in Moll Steppe, what he say?”

 

“He said what needed to be said.”

 

Thinking. Frankie said “I feel bad for the guy.”

 

Phone buzzed.

 

Latrell checked.

 

Latrell put it back.

 

“I’m gonna get some sh*t from the deli. You guys want anything?”

 

Frankie said “The Italian ice place across the street?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Get Reuben the coconut. I like watermelon. Jelly?”

 

Phil just pat Latrell on the back. Smiled. “Thanks anyway,” grit his teeth through red-turned-black stained gums.

 

Nodded.

 

Latrell got up.

 

Left through the back.

 

Walked past the hatchback and the trails in the rain, the rain-maybe-snow-all-slush pitter-pattering from the sky, the treadmarks still deep on the ground. Blood still there.

 

Crossed 158th Street.

 

Passed the Italian ice place. Passed Minstrel Superette. Walked onto Sound Span past the unmarked building into the parking lot a little up the road by the Animal Ark.

 

Debonaire menthol pulled out the box in his sweatshirt pocket, gripped between the lips. Unlit.

 

White Declasse Burrito at the end of the lot.

 

Rubbed his hands together. Knocked three times.

 

Pezeshkifar opened the door. Squat little husky Persian guy with a soul patch, winter gloves. Shane behind him, “You f*cking idiot.”

 

Latrell sniffed.

 

“What the f*ck happened there?” Pezeshkifar, “You didn’t even hit half the f*cking targets the guys wanted you to.”

 

Latrell shrugged.

 

Shane glared. “Get the f*ck inside. Idiot. What if they f*cking followed you?”

 

Shrugged.

 

Climbed in. Surveillance up the ass. TV screens and knobs and wires, headphones around Shane’s neck. “You didn’t ask about the consigliere bullsh*t. Sonny Bottino and the two years on a plea f*ckin’ thing, Gordy Blinks or f*cking nobody.”

 

Latrell stared.

 

“You just got f*cking- you got Phil beat to sh*t. Bernie Bing Bong coulda’ been something. Who gives a sh*t about f*cking Kazazi? You f*cking mook.”

 

Latrell shrugged. “They talked about the murder.”

 

“He admitted it, yeah, but that’s you and the two retards. Bernie Bing and his bird sh*t car.”

 

Latrell stared.

 

Pezeshkifar, “Some Albanian hoods on bikes. Irish. Maybe--”

 

“If we knew who the Chef was,” Shane said, “or half these f*cking aliases. Maybe.”

 

“We can run it by what we’ve got.”

 

Latrell stared.

 

Latrell shrugged. “Didn't need that legend sh*t at least.”

 

They stared at him.

 

The wound on his forehead festered.

 

He came back with the Italian ice after.

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

Edited April 22, 2022 by slimeball supreme

[slimeball supreme]

I Am Followed By One Thousand Ghosts

 

A man in a velour tracksuit opened the car door.

 

David ‘Davey Whiz’ Caro stepped out.

 

Near the intersection of Pennyford and Milton Avenues by the elevated subway tracks. Davey Caro - cropped hair and marble eyes, sucked-in cheeks and wrinkle face, coffee-color turtleneck under a leather blazer, blue jeans and camel suede loafers. Acting boss of the Lupisella family. Cigarette half a stub in his lips.

 

Kip, in the tracksuit, shut the doors of the Lokus and dusted off snow-sludge gathering on the curb with his sneaker before Dave went on. Locked the car, gleet gleet, Emperor keychain handed back to Dave.

 

Madame Plantier Citizen’s Club in pink on the window. Short verandah at 3205, plastic chair by the window. Empty. Six in the morning.

 

Reflection in the window. Eyes. Eyes up, eyes turned, back of the head left.

 

Kip opened the door for Davey, and Davey stepped through. Kip took his gloves off. Closed the door. Didn’t make a noise.

 

“Slice, Slice, Slice. Antonooch’.”

 

Tony Slice - bigger guy in a tucked in polo, broad shoulders - he nodded, stuck his tongue into his lip. “Whiz. You want me to get him?”

 

Davey shrugged, “Right as f*ckin’ rain, baby. We’re gonna talk after.”

 

Citizen’s club had two other heads in the barroom. Tony Slice nodded, kid at the bar with an undercut and about dozen tattoos poking out from the jacket sleeves, he got up and went upstairs.

 

Kip said “How’s he doing?”

 

“After what happened?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Sniffed, “Ticky’s a marine. Don’t want nothin’ he don’t already got. Lotta’ kids like him ain’t troopers, they’d bitch--”

 

“That’s good,” Davey said. “That’s good.”

 

“I’d like their necks,” Kip went. “Ngul’ a mammt, head to f*cking N*ggerland, knock some f*ckin’ skulls wide open. See what their brains spill on who did what leakin’ out on the f*ckin’ pavement.”

 

Brow furrowed. “We got any leads on that?”

 

Tony said “Yeah. Plates.”

 

“Plates how?”

 

“Plates on the car. This Annis. We gotta talk about that later but this friend of ours, the you know who, he got a trace on the numbers. Auto mechanic in South Slopes: Dan the Spanner Man.”

 

“We talk to him?”

 

“Yeah. I gotta talk to you about that.”

 

Rubbed his wrists. “Okay.”

 

Kip, “He a black? Families, I heard.”

 

“Jamaican,” Tony said.

 

“I heard something like that too. I tell you, I’d do it, it’d be a f*ckin’ privilege. Turn his--”

 

Ticky down the stairs with Titus. Big Titus, tired f*cking Titus, bags under the eyes, gray knit cap with LupiTell’em on it in big red lettering. Raised his eyes, nodded, lolled his tongue. Wanted to say something a lot harsher.

 

Didn’t. Handed Davey the phone.

 

Davey grinned. Put it to his ear, “Marco. Marco. Happy New Year.”

 

Mark Lupisella said “Yeah, that ain’t me, Whiz.”

 

“No, I know.”

 

“No, this is Mark.”

 

“I know. He told me.”

 

“We gotta, uh… yeah. Okay. We gotta do the thing?”

 

David sighed. “Yeah.”

 

“Because they ain’t heard nothin’.”

 

“Just in case.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“How is your haircut, anyways?”

Are you following the code okay?

 

Brief pause on the other end from Mark. “I, uh, I lose my uh, my razors. From time to time.”

I lose track of the code words from time to time.

 

“That’s okay, that’s okay. We might needa’ get another cut soon.”

We might need to change the code again.

 

Groan, “Aw, no. You gotta be f*ckin’ kidding me. Come on.”

 

“That’s the song from the canary. And it’s a beautiful song, too.”

That’s the decision from the Commission. And it’s a reasonable decision.

 

“And my f*ckin’ song ain’t beautiful’?”

And my call doesn't mean anything?

 

“We made our delivery. Pretty obvious the bakery and the milliner would go steel. So was the balloons, naturally.”

We had our meeting. It was clear the Gambettis and Pavanos would want the codes to change. The Messinas too, naturally.

 

“What was the time?”

Were we overruled 2-to-3 or 1-to-4?

 

“It was very much in the afternoon.”

1-to-4.

 

“And I just learned this f*cking sh*t too.”

 

“Mark.”

 

“Sorry, sorry. Whatever, f*ckin’ whatever. I don’t know- uh, f*ckin’... with the milk. In the Congo. Are the balloons gonna be on vacation or is there still a parade gonna happen?”

What happened with Vyvyan Spadina, in South Broker. Are the Messinas suing for peace or do they want war?

 

“Nobody wants a parade. Not with the weather.”

Nobody wants war. Not with current police attention.

 

“Have the kids gone to school?”

Have the guys who whacked Vyvyan been punished?

 

“Yeah, we got some complications there.”

 

“What?”

 

“The kids? They got their snacks, like you said.”

Frankie Mazza? He hit the Albanian, like you said.

 

“Okay?”

 

“But even if them roads ain’t blocked? They’re going to bed at the right time.”

But even if that problem is taken care of? His story hasn’t changed.

 

“So what?”

 

“School don’t make sense for the kids. We’re thinkin’ their sitter--”

Punishment shouldn’t be levied at them. I’m thinking their capo--

 

“Who?”

 

Davey cleared his throat. “You know who.”

His dad, Sammy Mazza.

 

“The African sitter?”

The Broker capo?

 

“The kids are saying their lunch was given by their babysitter. Lunch was rotten as f*ck, obviously. But they got the lunch regardless. And we got three thumbs from some other kids, they know he got the lunch. They was at the house.”

Frankie is saying he got the OK from his capo. The orders weren’t okayed by us, obviously. But they got the orders regardless. And we have confirmation from some other made guys, who said they know Sammy gave the OK for the hit. They were in the room with him.

 

“Is he delinquent or ignorant?”

Was he disobeying me or f*cking retarded?

 

“I don’t think it matters no more.”

 

“He can’t be babysitting the kids no more. He’s drunk too much f*ckin’ soda, I think.”

He can’t be capo anymore. He’s too old, I think.

 

“And he ain’t a fan of Europe. Or God.”

And he ain’t a fan of the Bohan side of the family. Or your father.

 

“Soda f*ckin’ addict motherf*cker. But we can’t revoke his license.”

Old f*ckin’ senile motherf*cker. But we can’t kill him.

 

“I know. We got a good kid ready to pay the rent. Figured you’d want that. This African kid who used to play stickball with the undertaker.”

We have a good soldier ready to take over the crew. Figured you’d want to shelve Sammy Mazza. The replacement’ll be a Broker goodfella who used to kick up to your dad’s old front-boss.

 

“I don’t know how to say the names with this thing.”

 

“Mark.”

 

“Does he have to be African?”

Does he have to be from Broker?

 

“The kids is fine with a new babysitter, but they don’t want nobody from France or Germany or nobody European.”

His crew is okay with a new capo, but they don’t want anybody from South Bohan or Morgan Avenue or anywhere in Bohan.

 

“And the kids who spilled the milk, they’ll be fine with this sh*t? Considering they got the whole strings with the thing or whatever the f*ck.”

And Frankie Mazza, he’ll be fine with this demotion? Considering their familial relations and [I have forgotten further code, David].

 

“Uh, yeah.”

 

“Why?”

 

“The kids is lucky they’ve still got their license. Plus, the kids have this real sweet dish. And they’re happy with ingredients in the lunch as long as he only plays stickball with us. And if he keeps his license.”

Frankie’s lucky he’s still alive. And he’s got a big amount of money coming in from a project he’s planning, and he’s fine with anything if he only has to kick up to us instead of his father. And if he keeps his life.

 

“What dish?”

What project?

 

“The party that got hats and cakes on. That the milliners decided would need balloons instead of fireworks.”

The thing at the docks involving Elmo Elardo and Roy Zito. That the Pavanos decided should involve the Messinas instead of us.

 

“Haha. They’re gonna eat that dish?”

They’re gonna rob that?

 

“They’re gonna eat that f*cking dish.”

They’re gonna rob that.

 

“Haha! Haha, okay, okay. Yeah, okay. I’m hungry for that, okay. As long as they don’t think no fireworks went off.”

I’d love to wipe the sh*t eating grin off those f*cks’ faces. As long as they don’t know we did it.

 

“They won’t. We okay?”

 

“We’re okay, Whiz. See youse later, take me off the f*ckin’ leash. Love you.”

See you later, give the phone back to my son.

 

“Have a good day, baby.”

 

Titus Lupisella still looking tired as all hell. Coming down, obviously. Davey passed the phone back and pointed with his pinky and said “Don’t wear that f*cking hat again.”

 

Rolled his eyes and took it.

 

Went back upstairs.

 

Kip standing by the door, grinning. “That sh*t we gotta say.”

 

Davey laughed, “Yeah. Slice, we’re gonna put Momo Labriola in for Samootz’s crew. Get the word to him.”

 

“That gonna go well? Demented f*ck won’t know one way or the other, but y’know. He’s still got buttons.”

 

“Loopy gave the okay. We gonna talk about this thing with the Spanner Man?”

 

Tony Slice said “Is the big guy doing fine?”

 

“What, Loopy?”

 

“Yeah. In lockup.”

 

Davey shrugged.

 

***

 

Pulled his eyelid down.

 

Let go. Eyelid popped back into place.

 

Did it again.

 

Today wasn't even worth getting wired up.

 

Phil back at his place. Recovering.

 

Pulled his eyelid down.

 

Let go.

 

Blood vessels in a yellowed sclera. Scar near the temple gone this coffee color, brown-light reminder. Bandage on the sink. Hair from the head-trim collected by the drain. Turned the tap on, tried to wash the hair down into the pipes, just clogged together between the holes. Pushed it down with his pinky.

 

Applied the bandage.

 

Frankie did business with an Albanian. He killed two. Was doing business with two others.

 

Put his sweater on. Quilted jacket on the toilet seat. Pulled his eyelid down. Let go.

 

Hand on his scalp.

 

Jacket on.

 

Skully on.

 

Out the bathroom. Down to the living space, Debonaire pack on the coffee table, opened the door. Was lacing his Hinterlands.

 

Stopped.

 

Jasmine.

 

Jasmine talking, Jasmine worn out holding her kid Reggie by the wrist while the kid was bored out his f*cking mind. Another Balla a little ways down the hall, Cevonté, sagged joggers and sunglasses on inside. Playing with his chains.

 

Could barely make out what Jasmine was saying. Reggie in denim overalls. Jasmine without makeup, door open, hands with painted nails peeking.

 

Reggie looked at Latrell.

 

Latrell shut the f*cking door.

 

Latrell breathed.

 

Latrell breathed.

 

Latrell breathed.

 

Was crouched down to tie the laces. Fell against the wall by the door. Tried to look through the hinges, stared at the imperfections in the paintwork right ahead of him.

 

Latrell breathed.

 

Latrell pulled his eyelid down.

 

Let go.

 

***

 

Kalem Petrela was this cockeyed looking twenty-eight year old Albanian guy. Wet fringe against his forehead, Red Mist XI soccer shirt. Reuben asked where they were from, Kalem with this peaky voice said they were an English team. From London.

 

“Do they have playoffs for soccer?”

 

“Yeah, sorta, man, sorta, yeah.”

 

“They coming up?”

 

“Gonna play Barcelona in couple days, man.”

 

“Where are they from?”

 

Bledar - bigger squeaky sounding prick around Frankie’s age, maybe younger, Shodi jeans and a Yogarishima tee under a lime Spyde track jacket - he said “Spain.”

 

Reuben nodded.

 

It was Kalem’s apartment. Spot in Welham Parkway off Little Kosovo on Wisner Avenue. Little bakeries and delis; Save-a-Cent across the street and a laundromat on the block. Double-headed eagle mural a street down next to a pasticceria and a burek spot.

 

Passed the joint around.

 

Mellowed.

 

Frankie didn’t hold Albanians against nobody for nothin’ nobody ever did, he said. Out the blue.

 

“Thanks,” Bledar wheezed. “Okay.”

 

“We’ve never been friends with Tony Black, neither,” Frankie said cute-like.

 

“That wasn’t us.”

 

“Well nobody says nobody didn’t do nothin’ anyways.”

 

“No, that was different Albanians.”

 

“Well, okay.”

 

“Even they say they don’t do it,” Kalem murmured. “Shefqet’s guys.”

 

Frankie, “The Chef?”

 

Bledar, “That kudër.”

 

“That what? Haha, that what?”

 

“I hate-ate-ate-hate that mothersf*cker, man.”

 

“He hates Italians, obviously.” Beckoned for the joint but didn’t get it. “Hates them enough to blo- haha, to uh, to do that.”

 

“Friend of mine,” Kalem smiled. “You know him, Bledar. He’s always talking about how he goes over to his brother in Bari. He sells ice creams, his brother. But he hates Italians.”

 

Reuben, “The one selling ice cream?”

 

“No, the friend. They're racist, he says. Says the Italians here aren’t even real Italians.”

 

“No,” Frankie spat.

 

“Yeah, no, I agree. Italians here fine.”

 

“Every person with the Ancelottis I know is a c*nt. And the Old Man, who loved the helicopters.”

 

“What you mean?”

 

“He loved helicopters. Like, to fly them. He bought at least two.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“That borgata is a mess. Ever since they put Giovanni away, man. The Stoat. Ever since they put him away.”

 

Reuben, “They’ve been making people in prison bathrooms.”

 

Kalem, “How do they get the gun in prison?”

 

“What?”

 

“When he gets made they shoot him in the back of the head.”

 

“No, no. That was- in Badfellas he thought he was being made. Which is a great honor. But they lied.”

 

“Why?”

 

Frankie, “He was nuts. Bumpy, can you get me a soda?”

 

Latrell had been sitting on the floor cross-legged. They were all on the sofa - wide sofa. Latrell off to the side, sitting pretty, TV on MeTV playing reality nonsense. Volume turned down to basically nothing. Hadn’t been offered the joint.

 

“I heard- uh, wait--”

 

“Yeah, can you just--”

 

“With Amir Towers. I watched this thing where they said everyone was really pissed off it got cancelled? Because it was going to be a big moneymaker and sh*t, nahmsayin’, for all the families and sh*t. And all the niggas who died.”

 

Beat.

 

Kalem laughed.

 

Frankie said “Just get me a f*cking soda.”

 

Latrell got up.

 

Bledar said “All the good money is online. I know these two Czech guys made all this money off triple-X internet sh*t before going prisoned.”

 

Frankie said “Preston with the Pecs?”

 

“He was one. And other was rapist. They took the credit cards and scam them real good.”

 

Latrell was by the kitchen now. Didn’t know who that was. Opened it - beer, deli meats, orange soda.

 

Blinked. “You want Orang-O-Tang?”

 

“What?!”

 

“You want an Orang-O-Tang, son?”

 

Pause. Frankie exhaled, “No.”

 

Bledar, “There’s a vending machine in the lobby.”

 

Latrell stopped.

 

Blinked.

 

Closed the fridge door.

 

Stared at the electric sockets to the right. Dirty dishes, something like rice stuck to them.

 

Hands on the counter.

 

“I been trying to get into the internet,” Frankie said. “I don’t really get it. I got a LifeInvader.”

 

“Yeah, same, yeah, same.”

 

“You can make some boney five f*ckin’ scarole with the titty videos. And the online stuff. These guys I know ran this thing on Dillon Street--”

 

“Hardware Store?”

 

“What?”

 

Bledar, “The Hardware Store. Before they raid it?”

 

“No. They had this gambling site thing they ran in a bodega.” Sniffed, “That was a West Side operation. I didn’t know even half the f*ckin’ guys in the indictment ‘cause the West Side don’t tell any of the other families about their new made guys.”

 

“Which wouldn’t fly back in the day,” Reuben said. “But it makes sense. With the squealing.”

 

Kalem laughed. “What?”

 

Frankie coughed out a “What? What the f*ck hard to get about that, you was talking about por--”

 

“What the f*ck a West Side?”

 

“Pavanos, Pavanos. They’re called the West Side.”

 

“By who?”

 

Latrell was still gripping the counter. “What you want from the vending machine?”

 

Didn’t even blink, “Beam,” Frankie wheezed. Had the joint now, “This is--”

 

“Yeah, gemme’ a coke too,” Reuben said.

 

Kalem, “Can you get me a orange soda?”

 

Thought a second.

 

Okay.

 

“A’ight. You got the money?”

 

Laughed so hard he started coughing, “What? Haha. What?”

 

Thought a second.

 

Okay.

 

Latrell rounded the sofa. Past the TV, out to the doorway. Opened the door, left it opened, lingered to hear conversation.

 

“I bought a Deadeye Carbine from this guy. You remember Dunks?”

 

“Oh yeah, oh yeah,” Kalem murmured. “Never like him.”

 

“He’s good. This thing is crazy. Halfway looks like somethin’ from a f*ckin’, uh, like f*ckin’ The Simian. It ain’t like a CSR because the magazine’s in the f*ckin’ handle. And it’s pistol caliber.”

 

Reuben yelled “Hey! What the f*ck are you doing?”

 

Latrell blinked.

 

Shuffled out the door.

 

Closed it.

 

Held his ear to it.

 

Went to get the soda.

 

***

 

They were in Frankie’s Ubermacht in Broker.

 

Latrell was in the backseat. Like they were going a million miles an hour and nothing at the same time.

 

Crushed the Orang-o-Tang can. Frankie tossed it out the window, “I hate that sh*t.”

 

Latrell said “Same.”

 

“Hey,” Frankie said. “We got word. From the people.”

 

Reuben said “Yeah, from the people.”

 

“We have to take care of something.”

 

Latrell didn’t reply.

 

Frankie craned his neck over the seat. Eyes locked.

 

Latrell didn’t reply.

 

“You don’t mind, right, Latrell?”

 

“You can come, Latrell.”

 

“Some real mafia sh*t, Latrell.”

 

Latrell didn’t reply.

 

“Are you gonna say something?”

 

“Stuttering, muttering, motherf*cking--”

 

“Sure,” Latrell said. “I don’t mind.”

 

Frankie hit the brakes.

 

Horns were honking in the street. Latrell turned his head, through the rear window, a million headlights on and horns going manic. Reversed.

 

Nearly dented another car’s fender. Turned around, onto the opposite side of the road.

 

Drove the other way.

 

Frankie cackled.

 

Reuben cackled.

 

The street was empty.

 

Latrell rolled down the window.

 

“Did you ask?” Frankie said.

 

Latrell rolled the window back up. “Can I roll the window down, sir?”

 

“Sure thing,” Frankie smiled.

 

Latrell rolled the window down.

 

Craned his head outside.

 

Wind whipping in his face.

 

Green highway sign. Flashing, flickering Manco Real Estate sign on the horizon. Green highway sign said ‘South Slopes’.

 

A flock of pigeons passed through the holes, roosted on the green.

 

Latrell pulled himself back in the car. He rolled the window back up.

 

M.O.P. was playing.

 

I see right now I got to show you it ain't nothin sweet

Go get your muthaf*ckin hammer

And act like you want drama

 

“Frankie, sir?”

 

Frankie craned his neck forward. Still driving. “Yeah?”

 

“Can I have a smoke, please?”

 

“No, thank you.”

 

“Okay. Thanks, anyway.”

 

“No problem.”

 

Arms were hot. Arms were hot. “My arms are hot,” Latrell said.

 

“We found out who killed Angie Bufano,” Frankie said.

 

I send a message to your mama

Hello, do you know your one son left?

 

“It was some Jamaican guys in South Slopes,” Latrell said.

 

Frankie’s brow jumped. “Wow. How did you know that?”

 

“Just a guess.”

 

I had license to kill and he had been marked for death

He's up the Hill in the back of the building with two in the dome

I left him stiffer than a tombstone

 

“You know all kinds of gang stuff,” Reuben said. “I admire that.”

 

“Thank you,” Latrell grinned. “I did a lot of research online.”

 

“Same!”

 

“Hey,” Frankie said. “Sorry about the other day. With the cop and Phil.”

 

“It’s no problem,” Latrell said. “After all--”

 

Frankie hit the brakes.

 

They were on Onondaga Avenue. The city was noisy. People shuffling on sidewalks, cars whizzing by. Whizzing and shuffling. The sounds of a noisy city. A city filled with noise and sound.

 

Latrell was rubbing his arms.

 

“You should be grateful,” Reuben said. “It’s cold out there. Homeless guys die every day. They’d kill for hot arms, probably.”

 

“Don’t forget your gloves,” Frankie said.

 

He left the car.

 

Latrell shifted to the left. Sidewalk side.

 

Grabbed the door handle. Pushed.

 

It wouldn’t open.

 

Pushed.

 

It wouldn’t open.

 

“Frankie,” Latrell said. “Frankie.”

 

Knocked on the window.

 

Pushed.

 

Knocked on the window. Knocked on the window. Knocked on the window knocked on the window--

 

“Can you not open the door?”

 

“NO! I CAN’T OPEN THE DOOR!”

 

“You f*cking idiot.”

 

Reuben laughed, “Look at this tard.”

 

“Did you even think about the gloves?”

 

Latrell opened his hands. Pressed them against the window. He was wearing his gloves. “I am wearing my gloves.”

 

“Idiot. Open the f*cking door.”

 

Reuben spat, “We can’t do this without you.”

 

“Do you not even know how to open a simple door?”

 

“You f*cking idiot.”

 

Latrell grabbed the door handle.

 

Latrell pushed inward.

 

The door opened. He had to shuffle out of the way so it didn’t scrape his knees; the door against the back of the driver’s seat.

 

Stepped out.

 

Quality Tobacco.

 

Frankie stuck his hand into his jacket pocket. Pulled out his keys. He threw them at Latrell.

 

They hit him on the f*cking forehead.

 

He lost his footing. Tripped backward on the curb, hit his head on the roof of the car. Planted his face on the concrete.

 

He grabbed the keys. “Open the trunk,” Reuben said.

 

Latrell got up. Held the car as he walked himself to the rear.

 

Stuck his key in the crack and pulled it open. Could hear his pulse in his ear, thumping in his ear.

 

The Albanian pot. All the weed they’d bought from Kalem and Bledar. And all the weed they’d bought from Mergim and Fatbard, even though they hadn’t bought it from them. Saran-wrapped and packed right to the top of the trunk.

 

Latrell removed a brick, put it on the roof of the car.

 

“The back of your head is bleeding,” Reuben said.

 

“Okay,” Latrell replied. He kept removing the bricks.

 

Trunk was empty, except for the teeth. Latrell grabbed them by the fistful, gave each to Frankie and Reuben. They loaded them into their revolvers.

 

“Do you remember when we wanted to put iFruit phones in soda cans so we could get them to Dennis in the MDC?”

 

“Yeah, Frankie,” Latrell muttered.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You forgot about that, didn’t you?”

 

“You never told me about what happened with all of the stuff you did.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Did you tell Phil?”

 

“Not really.”

 

“Irish are sort of like melanzane because they aren’t really people.”

 

“Actually,” Reuben said, “not anymore.”

 

“True,” Frankie said. “But in Badfellas they couldn’t get made because they were half-Irish.”

 

“We’re going to be late if we don’t go into the tobacco shop soon,” Frankie said. “Do you have any questions?”

 

“Yeah,” Latrell said. “A few.”

 

“Okay.”

 

The door chime rang, signalling the smoky, musty belly of the premises before them. Latrell took his jacket off and rolled the sleeves of his sweater up, hoped it’d cool off his arms. A cramped, dank, and mucid place, hole in the wall, bottom of the barrel.

 

Latrell bit his nails. Andre said “Hey.”

 

“Hey, Andre,” Latrell said.

 

“Been a long time,” he smiled. “The back of your head is bleeding.”

 

“Yeah, they told me.”

 

“Oh. Oh! Haha.” He grinned, “Is this about the, uh-... you know what.”

 

“Yeah,” Latrell laughed. “Y’know, when we… haha. Haha! Oh man.”

 

“How’ve you been since then?”

 

“I’ve been okay. I met these guys,” thumbed back at Frankie and Reuben. “I crashed into their car.”

 

“Oh, why’d you do that?”

 

“I was real mad, son. My f*cking r*tard buddy, he ruined this whole thing for me. Like, bolt from the f*cking blue! So, you know, he’s in a f*cking coma now, they’re probably gonna take his vegetable ass off the f*ckin’ life support. But you know, I met these guys. I thought they were cops.”

 

“Is that their car out front?”

 

“Yeah, yeah. Turns out, they knew Angelo. That was the name of the guy you blew the head off of. The Italian guy with the dish soap.”

 

“Oh! Right.”

 

“But they don’t know I knew him, naturally. Anyway, they had this whole thing where they wanted me to do some stuff, blah blah blah- I’m tryna’- you know Ramon?”

 

“No.”

 

“Well, him and his brother, they ran this garage near Hove Beach. They’re Mexican, though--”

 

“Actually, they were Puerto Rican.”

 

“Right, right. But they had this whole huge haul. I need money. I wanna get off my feet, stop f*ckin’ with these Ballas from my neighborhood. Independent, big money balla without the Ballin’. So you know, I picked up some of my r*tard insult errand boys and we got to work trying to put it to task. But since most of them are gone, now, I don’t know. Y’know.”

 

“So Ramon and Gerardo, what happened to them?”

 

“You know, you and the other guy. Was he your cousin or your brother?”

 

“I don’t remember.”

 

“Yeah, I don’t remember his name. The other Jamaican guy. Kenton’s, uh… his f*cking… ah, I don’t even know.”

 

“Yeah, me neither. Hey, sorry I’m not retarded anymore.”

 

“It’s okay.”

 

Frankie side-stepped over, “We have to kill you now because you killed Angie.”

 

“It was supposed to just be an armed robbery. We thought there’d be cocaine in the truck or something.”

 

“Why would we put cocaine in a truck?”

 

Laughed. “You know, I never thought of that.”

 

Andre died.

 

Andre was dead.

 

“You know,” Frankie said. “You really screwed up this whole thing.”

 

“I want to put nails into the eyes of everyone I’ve ever met,” Latrell replied. “I want to squeeze their heads until they pop. Like a zit. Drag knives down their bodies, from their toes up to their shoulders. Split the skin apart and dance with what’s inside them. You, and your friend, and the police, and DB, and Phil, and Xavier, and Knot. I want to string them up to dry like laundry.”

 

They headed downstairs.

 

Could not see anything. Still colors like a thousand flags draped on every surface. Details lost in a soup of eye-flutter, like the world was burning. Still and moving at the same time.

 

Latrell opened the car door and stepped out onto the snow. They were playing dominoes on the court. Normandy 600 forty ounces half-empty.

 

The table was a mirror. Slip chopped lines of cocaine with a credit card and offered it to Latrell.

 

“I don’t have a nose,” Latrell sighed.

 

Kenton was asleep on the floor.

 

Phil, “You know the Mors Mutual commercials?”

 

Knot laughed, “Nah, son, you mean the ones- oh sh*t- the one where he’s on the phone? And he’s got- yo, his wife comes the f*ck down the stairs. And she thinks he’s cheating on her.”

 

“Craig from Mors Mutual.”

 

“We expect the unexpected!”

 

Latrell beamed, “I love those commercials.”

 

“Yeah,” Knot grinned, “son, I remember when it was me and you when we was kids, right? And you’d sit in front of the TV. And when the commercial break was over, son you ain’t gonna believe this, he’d switch the channel so he could keep watchin’ the f*ckin’ commercials.”

 

Phil laughed so hard he started choking.

 

Latrell stopped smiling, “I only did that once with you.”

 

“I always judged you for it.”

 

“You were a lackey until the f*cking end.”

 

Slip, “Empty your pockets. We need to shake you.”

 

“Five popping, six dropping. Five popping, six dropping.”

 

“Come on,” Phil said. “Just deal with it.”

 

Latrell pushed his hand into his jean pockets and pulled out a handful of teeth.

 

He placed it in the center of the table.

 

Latrell looked in the mirror. He had no eyes. He had no face. His head was smooth - all skin, all flat. He put a palm against it: felt his hand flatten against the surface. He could still see, but his hand did not feel the imperfections. Like it was against glass.

 

“The Pegorinos was always a cowboy family,” said Ricky Spoleto. “If you could even call ‘em that. They’d kill cops, they wouldn’t give a f*ck. Staffed their regime, like, f*ckin’ tenfold all f*ckin’ killers. Nobody makin’ money, no rackets, just f*ckin’ murderers. Phil Bell, their consigliere? He got jumpy after he got busted in 2005, worst codes I ever heard after. Before he’d talk about killing people on the phone like it was outta f*ckin’ style. Only Teddy Boccino, a couple a’ old guys like him, were actually earning real scratch from anythin’ more than the standard blue collar kinda’ thing. Waste rackets.”

 

Phil laughed, “They had a Commission meeting ‘cause they kept whackin’ anybody and everybody who went to the joint. I forget which case that was, which indictment they started doin’ it. The Peg did it to Walter the Rabbi.”

 

“Yeah, he did. Had people flipping like a f*cking dime because they knew they got a death sentence either way. And that moron thought he’d get a seat. Like they’re giving out seats these days, like there’s a prominence.”

 

“You people are jokes,” Latrell said. “I saw this in a video. It wasn’t even good.”

 

Phil shrugged, “We take what we can get.”

 

“I heard you call me a n*gger on the wiretap.”

 

“Oh. I forgot.”

 

“You must’ve.”

 

“I’m just another means to an end, kid. Sad old f*ck like me.”

 

“I bought a baby stroller for my sister’s kid,” Slip smiled. “Ballettes, the Lil’ Ballas. How’s Xavier, Latrell?”

 

Latrell walked through the snow.

 

Latrell walked through the snow.

 

The tombstones were a crowd of a million heads. Duppies in each one, a duppy following every footstep Latrell took.

 

Latrell jumped around!

 

They were hiding.

 

He kept trudging through the snow.

 

ROBBIE BASHO

1940 - 1986

 

“You never liked good music,” Phil muttered.

 

“Every duppy gotta listen to hip hop. And what, I don’t? My moms listens to f*ckin’... Hot Buttered Soul. I hate that. I’d get out my f*ckin’ room just so I didn’t got to listen to that sh*t. And the Ballas’d be playing PG Jackson and MC Clip and all this bark bark f*ck you bullsh*t. DMX.”

 

“DB-P and Q-Whispers.”

 

“That album DB-P did. Xavier liked that sh*t. He got his jaw shattered, did the whole thing with his jaw wired shut.”

 

“It sold, though.”

 

“It did.”

 

LEON KING

1935 - 1994

 

“He killed himself,” Latrell said. “I looked it up on Duplex after I lied to DB’s grandmother.”

 

“Your mom is such a c*nt,” Phil laughed.

 

“She was cooking spaghetti once and I tried to spill the water on her. I got it on my leg. I had to go to the ER.”

 

“How old were you?”

 

“I was seven.”

 

“Did she know?”

 

“I don’t think so. I had a dream once she died from it. I climbed a tree in it.”

 

“How big was the tree?”

 

“Taller than the projects. I kept climbing and climbing and climbing and climbing and climbing and climbing and climbing and climbing and clim--”

 

Latrell slipped.

 

The interrogation room was dark.

 

The ghosts were still there.

 

Latrell blinked.

 

He pulled his eyelid down.

 

Let go.

 

Pulled his eyelid down.

 

Let go.

 

The table was a mirror. He looked into it. Saw the graves. Had to pull them apart like curtains to look at his face. His eyelid was stuck.

 

He pushed it back up.

 

It drooped down.

 

“Oh, great. Oh, f*cking great. Just my luck.”

 

The door opened.

 

Knot pointed. “Damn, son, look at his eye, son.”

 

DB had the biggest smile he’d ever seen. “Almost like the scar. He got that trying to do some idiotic lick I wanted to do? And I didn’t tell him anything about it.”

 

Cackled. “You probably ruined his face for life, Delmar.”

 

“Posted up on the corner, I knew the kinda’ sh*t you used to sling, Trell. Remember that nickname? Trell? Do the wops call you Trell?”

 

“They call me Bumpy,” Latrell said.

 

“You sold duppies dicey sh*t. You cut the dope so hard with powdered milk that sh*t shoulda’ gone in cereal.”

 

“I wish I got it back, too. I wish I cut off their arms. Slip, in the baby stroller. That infant. Tax off everyone. For nothing. Communist f*cking piece of sh*t.”

 

“Being a Balla, my son, it’s all some communist back-and-forth bullsh*t. But you been sonned out your whole life, Latrell.”

 

“No.”

 

“Frankie sonned you out,” Xavier said.

 

“And Slip,” DB added.

 

“And the Italians.”

 

“And the Disruption Team.”

 

“And the feds. How you get sonned by the feds? Feds a ship of rats, son. Feds snitching on feds. Norton snitching on Haines, Haines snitching on Norton.”

 

“I know,” Latrell said. “I went to sleep to the audiobook.”

 

“Can you hear the music?”

 

Latrell pointed at Knot’s face. “You made fun of me for the scar. But you’re never waking up. That scar, that scar’s funnier than mine’ll ever be.” Giant gaping wound on the upper corner of his skull. Blood oozing down.

 

“But I don’t have to walk. You do.”

 

Latrell jumped around!

 

“Aha! Got you, duppy!”

 

Frogface chuckled, shrugged. “Oh, man. Shoulda’ seen your face, though!”

 

RAMON LOZANO

1978 - 2015

 

“He made me kill you,” Latrell said. “I’m the only one that matters, so I had to.”

 

“Well, when you put it like that,” Frogface sighed. “You really didn’t have much choice.”

 

“I know. Obviously.”

 

“Yeah. And my mother, too, but that was the guy with the gloves.”

 

“Gerardo, yeah.”

 

GERARDO LOZANO

1977 - 2015

 

“I had no idea he was the elder,” Frogface said. “Do you remember my name?”

 

“No,” Latrell replied. “You weren’t important to me.”

 

“What about the dog?”

 

“What dog?”

 

The dog bit into Latrell’s arm. He screamed. Chunks of raw flesh torn out slapping the snow, white stained pink.

 

Pointed at Phil, “Why the hell did you do that?”

 

Mashed up face. Like putty put through a meat grinder. Eyes so black the blue was pulsating, like it was violet, like his skin was gonna burst.

 

“Don’t touch me.”

 

Latrell stuck his index out.

 

It slowly got closer.

 

“All you ever done is take advantage of people,” Phil spat. “And it’s never worked.”

 

“They aren’t people.”

 

“Did they ruin it for you? Or did you ruin it?”

 

Index got closer.

 

“Every step you take,” Phil said. “You’re gonna see something you f*cked up.”

 

“I did when we drove to kill the Albanians and I shot that dumb c*nt in the head by accident. I did when I left the station.”

 

“You’re in every grave.”

 

“You trust me.”

 

“I know. And that’s the funniest thing in the world. A joke that never gets old.”

 

“They’re gonna find out I’m a rat.”

 

“And you’re fine with that?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I win.”

 

Latrell’s finger pressed against the skin.

 

It burst.

 

Ghosts everywhere. Ghosts on every step.

 

Ghost hands around his jaw. Tore it open, snapped it off. They crawled inside him.

 

Latrell screamed.

 

Latrell screamed.

 

He kicked through the f*cking wall.

 

Knocked his alarm clock off the bedside table and the glass shattered, his phone on the floor. Hit the back of his head against the bed frame, blanket on the floor.

 

Upright.

 

Out of bed.

 

Eyes wide.

 

Looked left.

 

Hole in the plaster.

 

His foot was bleeding.

 

He blinked.

 

He blinked.

 

He touched himself.

 

He felt skin.

 

He wasn’t dreaming.

 

He got up.

 

Closet. Duffel bag. Pulled it out. Pulled jeans, pulled a jacket, pulled sweaters, stuffed them in. Stuffed anything and everything in. In in in.

 

Hand against the scar.

 

Grit his teeth.

 

Pair of sunglasses. Three hats, his skully, another skully.

 

He had too many clothes.

 

Had no idea how much he’d put in there.

 

He retched.

 

Retched.

 

Wiped the spit--

 

“Latrell, baby--”

 

“GO GO GO GO GO GO GO GO GO--”

 

Latrell zipped up the bag, around his shoulder, t-shirt on and boxers. Jeans under his sleeve slipping on his Hinterlands unlaced with no socks, barreled past his mother.

 

Mom on the ground.

 

She was saying something.

 

Latrell kicked the wall again. “Shut the f*ck up you dumb piece of sh*t.”

 

She was saying something.

 

Latrell pulled a shoe out his bag and threw it at her.

 

He slammed the f*cking door.

 

People poking heads out their doors in the hallway. Teflon, he saw Teflon, pointed at Teflon and yelled something but didn’t hear anything come out his mouth.

 

Down the steps.

 

Down the steps.

 

Half-tumbled.

 

Didn’t know what floor he was on. Eyes darting. Was sure the vertical patrols would be here.

 

He was on the ground floor. Shoulder-checked the f*cking door open.

 

Kids sitting on the stairs.

 

Latrell ran past them. Knocked one over, screamed at him.

 

Latrell ran.

 

Ran.

 

Ran.

 

Ran.

 

Ran.

 

***

 

The Solair pulled up on Bow Lack.

 

Window rolled down. “What happened?”

 

Latrell bug-eyed. Checked left, checked right. “I think they’re f*cking watching me.”

 

“What?” Phil squinted, “What the f*ck happened?”

 

“I got jumped.”

 

“You alright? Kid, you alright?”

 

“Please let me in. Please.”

 

Phil unlocked the door.

 

Latrell jumped in the backseat.

 

He drove.

 

Phil had sunglasses on, black baseball cap with the black-stitch LC Swingers embroidery blending in. Wasn’t wearing it for looks, or the shade, but because he wanted to hide the cheek gash and the bruises and the purpling.

 

He’d gotten Latrell’s call and driven there as fast as he could.

 

They didn’t speak.

 

Lights were off in the car. Lights were on in the street. Road painted yellow and the lights swirling. Billy Joel playing quiet on the radio.

 

Phil broke the silence with the whisper. “You’ve been jumped before, right?”

 

Latrell didn’t reply.

 

“The scar. On your head. I saw it, you was out a day or so. I wondered. This is that, right?”

 

Latrell nodded slowly, and then nodded quickly.

 

Hand on the steering wheel. He bit his knuckle. “You can stay with me.”

 

Latrell closed his eyes. Relaxed his head. “Thank you.”

 

They didn’t speak for a while.

 

Washed over.

 

Latrell pulled his eyelid.

 

Let go.

 

Snapped back into place. “Families,” he said.

 

Phil watched the road.

 

“I keep my hustle on no matter what. Suydam and East Liberty. It always goes down. I can’t be down there no more. Razor blades.”

 

“They get you?”

 

“My ankle. All they got was my ankle, son. I got lucky.”

 

Phil looked in the rear-view mirror. Pushed the sunglasses up a tad with his free hand, then just flat out took ‘em off. Placed them on the dashboard and massaged his good eye. “When I f*cked up that kid Qendrim. It didn’t go so good for me after. It’s a good story, but it didn’t.”

 

Latrell didn’t reply.

 

“You always gotta earn a little more scratch, kid, I know. I know it better than anybody. I f*cked with the scratch there, I did that. Biggest guy I ever talked to in this family. In this thing, biggest guy I ever knew was my father, maybe. After him, Messina guys.”

 

“A lot of names.”

 

“Everybody’s got a name. And everybody got a street. But it was the captain in Pennyford County. Christopher DiRosa’s father. You don’t know him.” Latrell did, he’d seen him on a whiteboard in a Bureau safehouse. “They called him Jackie Corncob. His name was Giacobbe. But I head… I head into this place they ran. I got told I gotta have a conversation.”

 

He paused. Like something stuck in his throat.

 

Latrell’s head was still on the seat. “Yeah?”

 

Phil leaned a little to the side. Pulled down the Zip tee at the back, tag still on. Huge gash, healed scarred gash, from one clavicle to the next. Pink, back hair ending where it started and starting after it ended. “I got a slap,” Phil said.

 

Blinked.

 

“But they still call me Jelly. And Rusty, and Phil Rings. So f*ck Jackie the Cob, huh? And f*ck whatever money he was makin’ with that piece a’ f*ck on some visa fraud sh*t.”

 

Latrell wiped his eyes. “Yeah,” he muttered. “He can suck your dick.”

 

Cracked a pained little smile. “Albanians everywhere now. On Morgan Avenue, half the stores is Albanian. Frankie’d get into fights with the Albanian kids at the mall. At the bar. In high school. And now he loves dealing with ‘em… you met Bledar and Kalem.”

 

“They made me get ‘em sodas, son.”

 

Haha. Curt laugh, sighed. “You been doing reading, right?”

 

Didn’t know what to say.

 

“Nothin’ to be coy about, Latrell. I know the little anecdote. The documentary f*cks.”

 

“Maybe,” Latrell muttered.

 

“They did the same sh*t. With the, uh… the f*ckin’... the websites.”

 

“TheGasHouse.”

 

“That’s one. The gangsta websites. And Snapmatic. They always liked rap. And they’d go online and look up rappers from the Nineties and- and-... I don’t know.”

 

“They like stories. I just wanted them to talk.”

 

Nodded.

 

Silence.

 

“I always hustled, Latrell. I know you hustle. You always gotta hustle. You always gotta make a buck. And- and- and- and I been in the trenches. I mucked with some ill f*ckin’ motherf*ckers. And you always gotta look for an avenue so you can pay the rent and then the bookie and the alimony and the f*ckin’ captain.”

 

“Always taxing.”

 

“Always taxing, these Jew communist motherf*ckers! These Italian taxman feudal lord motherf*ckers. I make less than some postmen, probably. This- this this this thing with Frankie and Reuben. Me driving them. This has been the closest, uh, closest thing to a… stable salary. I ever got. Closest thing.”

 

“You got ‘em sodas?”

 

“I got ‘em sodas. And I paid for ‘em.”

 

“Deadass? I dead did that sh*t.”

 

“Yeah. I dead it- I dead did it… I did that.”

 

Tongue under his lip. “Ballin’ isn’t about the names. You niggas, all it is is names. Us, we put up… I mean, we got all this sh*t, b, we got all this- I mean… it’s not about who you know ‘cause they already know you, it’s about what you throw up. And then if you don’t throw it up right, or whatever… I flag purple and put the beads on and my cousin’d put on the green ones- but I don’t got no Families cousins or nothin’... and Lords throw up the gold and black. Dominicans uptown, they throw up… they got Santanas throw up the DR flag and lime. PALZ like the Swingers sh*t.”

 

Phil just said “Brands and sh*t.”

 

“Yeah, it’s your brand. What you get stuck with. Like a cow, son, or like a cattle or--”

 

“I was thinking like… like sneakers and sh*t.”

 

“Sure. I don’t know. It’s as dumb as anything else, son. And you dudes. I read online that there ain’t no real family feuds or no- I mean, Frankie said this sh*t too. It ain’t about the family you with but the people you got. No family wars. There was but the wars is only with the niggas you know.”

 

“It ain’t like that for you?”

 

“Sometimes it is and sometimes it ain’t.”

 

“Yeah. Sometimes it ain’t.”

 

“Lupisellas and Ancelottis over window fitting and Russians. Messinas and Gambettis over coke sh*t. But that ain’t Ballas and Families. There’s a reason for it. That’s just who you with and who you get the sh*t from. Ballas, ain’t no reason. I only know Slip, Ballas ain’t got no boss, just colors. You can switch a family but you can’t switch Ballas to Families or… am I right? Am I right?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

Air was thick in the car.

 

“I hate this sh*t,” Latrell said. “I hate colors. I wore colors ‘cause every other nigga wore colors and I hated them f*ckin’ colors. And I hate these f*cking Italian mafias sh*t.”

 

“Nobody says mafia. It’s this thing.”

 

“I hate this thing, man, I just want to make it, son, I just f*ck. Nahmsayin’, these… Frankie and them.”

 

“They’re a means to an end.”

 

“You’re all a means to an end. They are, I mean. This mafia sh*t. You know?”

 

“I know.” Could see him thinking. “Me too. These guys. They’re a payslip. This thing you got, this is good money.”

 

“Most definitely.”

 

“Quick money. We hit this, I mean, we resell it… this isn’t piddlywink f*ckin’ nonsense. I mean… all these Italians, I mean f*ck ‘em.”

 

Beat.

 

Beat.

 

“I met Roy Zito once,” Phil said. “In the 90’s, in ‘92. Through a friend of mine, Gerald. He was a f*ckin’ punk then. And that’s what we all were. And that’s what he is now even if he’s in a newspaper and they got gossip rags calling him a queer and that sorta’ thing.”

 

“Yeah?” Latrell wasn’t pretending to be impressed anymore.

 

“Yeah.” Phil wasn’t trying to impress him. “It was me… some Italian punk friends of Roy. We called him ‘the Wrist’, everyone called him Roy the Wrist. ‘Cause he broke his wrist, he tried to hide the limp. And it was me, and Gerald McReary, and it was this Albanian kid. He was a good kid from our neighborhood, his name was Arbi. We called him Muz.”

 

“And you was a gang?”

 

“No. Roy ran his thing and Gerald ran his. Gerald… I knew his brothers, both of them. My dad knew his dad even though… whatever. But his dad was like a god to me. Derrick was a god to me. This whole wiseguy gangbang sh*t was god.”

 

“It was like that for me, too.”

 

“Yeah. But Roy was putting this thing together with another Italian kid, another punk. They wanted to impress some bigshots. And I was a gun. And I remember Gerald trying to impress him, and telling these stories, and we was college age at the time so it was all pipsqueak sh*t.”

 

“That’s how I got into this. Ballin’. My sponsor, Kwame, he liked me. I liked him. I wanted to be a big Balla on the block. And I did sh*t for him. I punked these Lords and f*cked up their car… I was a kid.”

 

“But it’s all bullsh*t, right?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“It’s all bullsh*t,” Phil repeated. “It was bullsh*t here. Everyone had an uncle in this thing, or a father, or a cousin. Roy didn’t. I had Gerry, he was my brother. He was younger than me but I was always his kid brother. So Roy wanted to impress all these guys who had this family sh*t… and that robbery we put together, it went bad.”

 

Latrell blinked.

 

“I got outta’ there. Roy’s guys did. Gerry and the Muz got busted. And it was hard time. He never blamed Roy, they hooked up in the joint. Roy got busted on a bank he stuck up. But he blamed me.”

 

“You ain’t friends no more?”

 

“I got no more friends no more. You, I got. You mean… I don’t know. This whole thing means a lot to me. Gerald, I loved Gerald, and then he told me he wanted me dead and- and and I just hooked up with Lupisella guys instead. I never spoke to him again. And that’s been fine… but I ain’t nothin’ to them.”

 

“You got me. You the only thing matterin’ to me right now.”

 

“You matter to me, Latrell. And this thing, it’s gonna be big, and- and… and we’ll see. But it’ll be good, yeah? I’ll show you the ropes and- and all of that. And it’ll be everything, you and me.”

 

Latrell grinned. Hands behind his head. Watching the colors filter over the car’s ceiling.

 

“You bet, son,” he said.

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

Edited January 20, 2024 by slimeball supreme

[slimeball supreme]

Talking Kindly

 

Achban was being Achban. But not Achban.

 

An Achban Abbot didn’t recognize, or maybe misremembered.

 

Summer Achban. The Achban in a rental car from District Park to Goatherd.

 

A lie.

 

Cavalcade had the worst fuel economy in the f*cking world. A couple footsteps a gallon; it became obvious on a highway while the miles climbed. Stopped for gas stations.

 

Didn’t stop for much else. Could’ve stopped in Lenapia, could’ve seen the Bell. But they didn’t. Went on the Turnpike through Nowhere, Alderney. Crossed the Delaware and stopped for gas.

 

Could’ve stopped in Calverton. But they didn’t. Right through I-895.

 

Could’ve stopped in DC. But they didn’t. Crossed the Potomac and stopped for gas.

 

Achban aloof, Achban joking.

 

Abbot saw through the lie. Kaz didn’t.

 

They were in Virginia. Window was half-cranked. Poison smell through the windows. Smelled it when they rode past Quantico and still smelled it now. Like f*cking mercury.

 

 

“Dude, you know what I’ve been thinking about?” That was Achban.

 

Kaz said “Thinking about what?”

 

“Thinking about how often I’ve done this trek, man.” This put on voice. Realizing it was put on. Wanted to put a fork in Achban’s eye. Should’ve f*cking known the first time he said dude.

 

“You took a plane, you told me.”

 

“Yeah, I did.” Abbot wasn’t sure if he did or didn’t. Achban still with this lazy smile, “But it’s a good- I mean, it isn’t a good time, but it is a good time. I remember I told Maksim I was heading up to LC, he was like ‘no no no!’ Ha. I said I wanted to drive--”

 

Abbot said “Yeah.”

 

Pause.

 

Kaz leaned over from the passenger and said “What do you drive in Florida?”

 

“Oh.” Achban smirked, “Nothing special.”

 

“Nah, but what? I got the Fathom, you know.”

 

“That piece of crap.” Was still smirking, “Yeah, I’m just kidding, though, I am.”

 

“Yeah, it’s alright.”

 

“I’m just kidding.”

 

Fizzled.

 

Little Feat on the stereo. Achban’s favorite band, which was true, because Abbot remembered that from back in the day. Didn’t know what else was true.

 

Said slowly, “You didn’t say what car you drove.”

 

“It’s a good car,” Achban said.

 

“Okay. What is it?”

 

Paused and kind of coughed something at the front of his throat and said “Dominator.”

 

“Yeah?” Kaz was grinning, “No sh*t. You didn’t tell me that.”

 

“New one, yeah.” Voice was half-warbling and couldn’t tell if he was telling the truth. “Yeah.”

 

“I know… okay, so Firefly Island, right? You remember those guys?”

 

“Which guys? There were a lot of guys.”

 

“No, the Armenian guys. The Armenian and the Uzbek kids, those guys from Firefly. O-Set.”

 

Abbot said “First I’m hearing of this.”

 

“They’re lower rung guys, you know, they’re mostly kids, but they’re good people. Some of them. Abbot, I swear I told you this.”

 

“O-Set?”

 

“Yeah. That’s their name, it’s O-Set. They get tattoos and everything. They click with these Balla guys at the Firefly Projects, MOB or whatever. But that’s whatever that is. No, no, but O-Set, there’s that guy. The Armenian guy. With the pegleg.”

 

Achban said “Oh. Yervant.”

 

“Yes! His pa Spartak, he ran the mini market on Mohawk.” Paused a little to think, “I forget what we called pegleg--”

 

“Yasha.”

 

“Yasha Noga! Yasha Noga, and Spartak - he was always a good guy - and the Uzbek one. Spartak was the guy they always got to talk to Pasha or my dad or whatever.”

 

Face dropped on Achban for a moment. Saw the flicker when he said my dad. Said “Spartak was a good guy, yeah.”

 

“He’s still around. Yasha’s doing rounds on the prison barge, man, he’ll be out in… f*ckin’ 2025. Yasha, though, he drove the Dominator. I remember because that f*cking kid, Hovo.”

 

“Who?”

 

“Oh, he was a nobody. Hovo and this kid Vasily and another one, Bekzod. Bekzod was Uzbek. Me and Vadim had a stash at this place on Oneida. The apartment by the synagogue off Z. Stepan’s place before he went away.”

 

“I remember Stepan.”

 

Abbot basking in the nostalgia he weren’t party to, “What, they rob it?”

 

“Yeah, they hit the stash. In Noga’s Dominator. I remember Eddie the Goober was so f*cking pissed--”

 

Achban laughed, “What did you call him?”

 

“The Goober. He f*cking is, fat piece of sh*t. He is, Ackie.”

 

“Okay.” Abbot watched Achban’s face to see how Ackie hit. Hit a little, flinched a little.

 

“Vadim and me and Eddie head to Spartak’s, we go sh*t won’t fly and Spartak’s pissed. Spartak’s pissed, obviously.”

 

Passed under another overpass. Rte. 623 - American Legion Rd. Abbot said “I remember Spartak. I didn’t know he was with this.”

 

“More than most. But no, Yasha comes over and now he’s f*cking pissed. And he’s with Vasily. Hovo told him and Bekzod, right, that they got the permission to do the robbery. Which they didn’t, he just borrowed his car.”

 

“Why’d he let some hood borrow his car?”

 

“I don’t remember. I mean, they’re all friends. But he’s pissed at Hovo because Hovo didn’t tell him sh*t. I remember this too well, man. Because Hovo was out in Firefly Island and Yasha Noga, he tells us all cool. He tells us all cool, ‘You can do whatever you want to him, brother.’ Like that.”

 

“So Hovo’s dead,” Achban laughed. “Hovo’s dead.” That fake little voice, fake little laugh.

 

Kaz shushed, Kaz said “Nah. So the three of us go over to Hovo. Because Bekzod tells us where he’s at on the phone. At the Johnson’s Famous across the street from the train station, so we follow him, we walk and follow, we head over there in Vadim’s car. This is a little after the hurricane. But him and Bekzod are at the grocery place next to the bumper cars.”

 

“Next to the bumper cars?”

 

“Yeah! Yeah, f*cking Dodgem’s Bumper ‘n’ Dumper, man. Ackie - you don’t even know this since you left - you remember Greasy Joe’s?”

 

“Yeah. What?”

 

“What, it’s a f*cking Lucky Plucker now. And they’re closing the grocery next door, too.”

 

“Bumper cars are still there though, right?”

 

“Yeah, thank f*cking god.”

 

Abbot said “But Hovo? The hood?”

 

“Haha. So he’s headed down Crockett, we park the car across the street. Bekzod’s right behind him, he yells him down. And Hovie’s like what the f*ck, what--”

 

“Hovie?”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Come on. Achban, the nicknames.”

 

Achban didn’t reply. Was staring out the window.

 

“Achban, the nicknames.”

 

Snapped out, “Huh?”

 

“The nicknames. Kassian’s nicknames--”

 

“Oh, sure. Sure.” Glared a moment and threw out a smile, said “Yeah. It’s--”

 

“Please,” Kaz said. “Listen. Right. So Bekzod’s got Hovo turned around, we’re right on him. And Vadim shouts at him, and it’s in Russian so Abbot wouldn’t know, but he goes something like yo, nigga! And I was f*cking--”

 

Abbot smiling, “He said that?”

 

“Yeah, man.”

 

“Hahaha.”

 

“I was pissing myself. But no, it was serious. I woulda’ laughed but then Eddie Guberman f*cking socks him in the f*cking face when he turns around. And Hovo falls to the ground. Bekzod’s shouting at him.”

 

“This is in public?”

 

“Yeah, dude. Right out the front of the f*cking grocery and the f*cking bumper cars, man. So Bekzod helps him up and Hovo still thinks Bekzod’s on his side and boom! Boom, we all start f*cking kicking his f*cking sh*t in.”

 

“So people saw?”

 

“There were like six people across the street. And they were just watching. Some guys in the bodega. Ice cream place next door, chick there leans her head out the window, Eddie starts shouting at the bitch goin’ get the f*ck in get the f*ck in--”

 

Achban, “But, yeah--”

 

“No. Listen. Vadim pulls out his piece.”

 

“Oh sh*t,” Abbot went.

 

“Oh yeah. Nah, he ain’t dead though, no. Holds the thing by the barrel, slams the f*cking butt of the f*cking gun, just keeps f*cking slamming and slamming and slamming. Knocks Hovo’s f*cking teeth out.”

 

“Goddamn.”

 

“All his front f*cking teeth, Abbie. And he deserved it, that f*ck. But we’re all going. The kid- Eddie grabs him by the scruff, he goes ‘You get one-fifty next time, bad boy.’ Ackie knows, though, he said bad boy in Russian and it don’t translate the same way.”

 

Achban didn’t reply.

 

Kaz cleared his throat.

 

And Achban snapped right out of watching the trees, and he smiled, and he said “Yeah, it don’t translate. It doesn’t translate.”

 

“Yeah, exactly. Nah, Hovo was in the f*ckin’ ICU, he said he got like- he said something real dumb. Like some black guys mugged him even though he still had two grand in his f*cking wallet, he said they snatched his chain. He had no chain.”

 

“He had no chain,” Achban parroted. “He had no chain.”

 

Abbot gripped the wheel real tight.

 

“But nah,” Kaz said. “You hear about what happened with those two guys and Abbot?”

 

Abbot gripped tighter.

 

Achban looking at Abbot through the mirror. Nodded slow, “A little, yeah.”

 

“You remember Osip and uh… one of the Slavas. I think he was with O-Set, or- or, like… on the periphery of that whole thing.”

 

Matter of factly, “Osip Prokofiev. And the other guy was Vyacheslav.” Like a f*cking UC.

 

“Yeah! Yeah. Slava. It’s legitimately f*cking hysterical how that went down, man. I mean, naturally, it- okay, you know their names--”

 

“I remember Osip. Osip was around when I was around. And he’d wear the necklace with the Star of David even though he wasn’t Jewish.”

 

“Oh my f*cking god, yes! Yes. And I remember Slava, Slava was a f*cking bitch, man. I remember he got the PG Jackson vodka. And he was bragging about it and taking Snapmatic photos with that sh*t and he was drinking like three drops.”

 

“He’s dead now.”

 

“Yeah. No, Abbot went in there like he was taking out Bin Laden. My dad told me how. Osip is trying to hold him up, I don’t know why. Abbot has like, a f*cking cigarette carton of smack, because my dad is f*cking ridiculous.”

 

Song stopped. But they didn’t change it. “Was,” Achban said.

 

“Whatever. But he’d brag he could do kung fu like Al Di Napoli. Did I tell you I met Al Di Napoli?”

 

Abbot went “Only once.”

 

“With the f*cking changdu, dude. The kung fu shirts.”

 

Achban muttered, “They’re called changshans.”

 

“Yes! Thank you, Ackie.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Changshans. And he did a f*cking bow before he came into the poker joint. And karate moves or whatever, he bragged he was a trained kickboxer. And the whole time he was talking to these real heavy street guys in just the worst f*cking Russian.”

 

Abbot loosening the teeth. Stopping the grit, trying to stop thinking about what made him grit in the first place, he said “Yeah. And the mafia stories.”

 

“Because, Ackie, because he heard there were some real hard hitters at the poker games. Back when Pyotr was helping run the thing out of Cleethorpes Tower. On the 61st floor.”

 

Achban said “Yeah.”

 

“Yeah. You knew about that, right?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“No, everyone did. Before the guys running the thing went down and we had to move the game. I know you knew because everyone was talking about Florida, and the FIB guys who went down to where you’re at.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Just ‘I know’? Did Maksim have anything to do with that?”

 

Pause. “You still remember him?”

 

“Yeah, of course I remember Max.”

 

“We call him Mack in Florida more.”

 

“...Okay.”

 

Real long pause.

 

Kaz off his game. Cleared his throat.

 

Said “Where was I?”

 

Achban said “But Al Di Napoli--”

 

“Yeah, yeah. And the games at Cleethorpes Tower. I went down there. And I found out, while we were in the room with Di Napoli and f*cking Bruce Spade, they got an FIB task force trying to drill a bug in the floor.” Laughed, “He was so f*cking obnoxious.”

 

Abbot, “Bruce Spade?”

 

“I never met him. Al Di Napoli, though, yeah. He talked a lot about Florida. And guys he knew, and f*cking speed. You and Max and the guys are out in Lazuli Coast, right, Achban?”

 

Slowly, “Sure.”

 

“I don’t know if he name-dropped anyone you know, but he tried. Because he’s the karate gangster. He knows the Russian president. And some Italian guys too, but y’know, who gives a f*ck. He’s trying to play that mob thing, that debt he got into with the car going through the hospital in LS, the wiseguys who did that. He wants a movie out of that.”

 

“I heard,” Abbot said.

 

“He’ll film it in Bulgaria like the- oh, f*ck! I was f*cking talking about Osip, f*cking uh- yeah, yeah, f*cking--”

 

Abbot quick, “It doesn’t--”

 

Kassian quicker, “Did you even try to f*cking concuss that motherf*cker?”

 

Abbot didn’t say anything.

 

“He died from that sh*t. Like, Abbie goes in on the temple. Done. Osip, that dumb f*ck, he’s out. I mean this all seems like some Three Stooges sh*t but Abbot takes the dope Osip’s got already and doubles it. Osip, f*cking idiot, he gets his fingerprints all over the place and f*cking runs. Fugitive f*cking idiot. Set the f*ck up like its Burlesque, dude, like it’s theater.”

 

Nothing.

 

Nothing.

 

“I mean,” Kaz laughed. “Props.”

 

Nothing.

 

Achban said “Yeah.”

 

Nothing.

 

Abbot gripped the wheel so hard he could see the whites in his knuckles.

 

Nothing.

 

***

 

Abbot injected.

 

Achban was driving this time.

 

Thank god.

 

Sighed real hard in the back seat. Needle sticking out his arm a moment, tap-tapped it.

 

Achban had said something about the junk at the last gas station. Abbot told him to back the f*ck off.

 

Abbot asked ‘what car do you drive, again?’

 

Achban turned around and walked away.

 

They’d taken the wrong turn too many hours ago. Passed through Virginia fine, took the wrong turn off I-95. Would’ve been a straight shot to Vice City.

 

They turned onto I-795. Kept going until they hit I-40, which was maybe sixty miles later.

 

Kaz had been nodding off from the state line. They went f*ck it.

 

They were going to Wilmington now. Then Myrtle Beach, then Sayleway, then Savannah, then Florida. Back on I-95.

 

Abbot was lolling his tongue.

 

Nothing.

 

It was a good nothing.

 

Car door shut. Driver side.

 

Nothing.

 

Achban said “Where are your keys?”

 

Abbot laughed.

 

Repeated, “Where are your keys?”

 

“Can I ask you something?”

 

“What?” Like he didn’t have the time.

 

Abbot grinned.

 

Nothing.

 

“Well?”

 

“Achban,” Abbot smiled. “How many times have you taken this trek, man?”

 

Nothing.

 

Nothing.

 

“It’s maybe forty or so until Wilmington,” Achban said.

 

“You want Kaz to shut the f*ck up, don’t you?”

 

Nothing.

 

“I want you to.”

 

Abbot stuck his tongue out.

 

Laughed. “You’re f*cking dead.”

 

Achban didn’t even look back in the mirror.

 

Ignition.

 

Car turned on.

 

“I found the keys.”

 

Passenger opened.

 

Drove.

 

Opted not to rest at the rest stop. Opted to truck it, truck it past the colors and the fast food places: Waffle On and Taco Bomb and the Bolt Burger they’d been held up at for the coffee. Hotel signs flickering in the rear-view going back on the interchange: Olive Bush, U Get Inn, Holy Reverend’s.

 

Trees planted angular.

 

Treeline of a thousand heads dipping and diving through headlights, treeline stopping when the power-lines broke through. Where the trunks stood at a distance before flooding back into formation. Cavalry detail of leaves standing straight-backed, standing strong.

 

Line broke for the power lines. Formation broke for the powerlines, for loose roads, for the occasional driveway leading to a farmhouse or a broken down home.

 

Kaz and Achban talking.

 

Or Kaz talking, moreso.

 

And Abbot hearing none of it.

 

Little Feat on the radio.

 

Window on the passenger side down, wind flow jitter-jitter noise.

 

Sirens.

 

Closed his eyes.

 

Heard the wind. Heard Little Feat.

 

Heard sirens.

 

“--Abbot--”

 

“--he awake? Abbie, you awake?”

 

Murmured “Yeah.”

 

“I hope this ain’t no piss test, man.”

 

“You’re sick,” Achban said.

 

Abbot said “No.”

 

“No? No, you’re f*cking sick.”

 

“You’re sick in the f*cking head.”

 

“Shut up. No--”

 

“You think--”

 

“Put the f*cking sh*t away. You’re sick, pretend you’re sick. Just pretend you’re sick.”

 

“You don’t gotta pretend.”

 

“Do you want to go to f*cking jail?”

 

Abbot closed his eyes.

 

Held.

 

Opened. “Okay,” he said. “I’m sick.”

 

Red. Blue. Red. Blue. Red. Black. Abbot laid down.

 

Kassian, “You got a blanket, right?”

 

“Just use your f*cking coat,” Achban spat.

 

Crumpled up knock-off Rearwall puffer stuck under the driver seat.

 

Half-heartedly grabbed it. Unfurled it, unfurled it delicate.

 

Car stopped.

 

Abbot was draped. Hand on his cheek.

 

“Keep your trap shut.” Wasn’t addressed at nobody.

 

Kaz said “Sure, sure, church mice, man, I’m a church--”

 

“That’s a talent of yours,” Abbot grinned. “Not saying anything.”

 

Growled, “Shut the f*ck--”

 

“This guy,” whispered Abbot, “he loves to not say anything to anybody for any--”

 

Tapping on the window.

 

Tap-tap.

 

Window-whir. Button click, thing went down.

 

Little Feat quiet on the stereo.

 

All of the good, good times were ours

In the land of milk and honey

 

Glance of his face with his head flat on the seat. State Trooper. Stiff-brim campaign hat, stiff bottom lip looking guy with eyebrows light enough to disappear under car lights. Red, blue, red, blue. Nametag said Bigheart.

 

Little silence while he looked in the car. Eyes on Abbot, eyes met, eyes back on Achban. “I’m gonna need your license.”

 

“This ain’t his car.” Kassian. Pointed out the back down at Abbot and repeated, “This ain’t his car, it’s his, it’s his car, he’s just sick.”

 

Bigheart squinted.

 

Looked at Abbot. Abbot squinting.

 

Back at Achban. “Then I need both your licenses.”

 

Achban already had his hand on the hip, said “Hand it over.”

 

Blinked. Ruffled through his jeans, to the wallet.

 

 

Passed it over and put on a little shake in the hand. Achban snatched it out.

 

“Bud,” Bigheart murmured. “Your arm good?”

 

Kaz chewed his lip and said “That’s what the cast’s for.”

 

Cop nodded. Cop stared at the license. “I noticed the Liberty plates.”

 

“Yeah,” Achban muttered.

 

“Y’all on a trek?”

 

“Something like that, sure.”

 

“Good taste,” thumbed at the radio. “Good band.”

 

“I’m a fan.”

 

“Yeah? ‘Nuff said, huh? So, uh, Broker.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Long way out.”

 

“We’ve been taking shifts. Gas station, switch, gas station, switch. And this car, it’s got mileage like ass, you need to f*ckin’ refill the thing every five minutes. So this’d be like a day trip and we’ve already been out on the road a day.”

 

“Where y’all headed?”

 

“Sayleway,” Achban lied. “We got family.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah, my uncle, he runs a print shop.”

 

“You wanna know something funny?” Complete non-sequitur, this smirk on his face.

 

Achban said “What?”

 

“You’re the first Jews I think I ever met.”

 

Kaz laughed, “No sh*t?”

 

“You Jewish?”

 

“I’m Jewish, yeah.”

 

Repeated, “You’re the first Jews I think I ever met.”

 

“This is one of the first times I’ve ever been more than a few miles out of Liberty City, man, so I know exactly what you mean, man.”

 

“See Cohen, I know that, because Leonard Cohen. I listen to him. So I look him up, and he’s Jewish. He’s from Canada, though.”

 

Achban said “Hallelujah?”

 

“Hell yeah, man. And your name, no offense--”

 

“It’s biblical.”

 

“Get outta here.”

 

“What?”

 

“Do Jews have a bible?”

 

“Yeah, they have a b- yeah. Yeah.”

 

“‘Cause I just read they have the Torah. And the Kabbalah.”

 

“They spoke Hebrew in the Bible.”

 

Trooper Bigheart chuckled, “Well, there you go.” 

 

Kassian said “Yeah,” and he said it for no reason.

 

“My name’s ridiculous,” little snicker from Achban. That put on voice.

 

Bigheart said “Oh, no--”

 

“No, even for a Jew, man. So it isn’t offensive to say.”

 

“Oh.” Said it relieved. “Good.”

 

“It’s funny, actually. It doesn’t even make sense, my name. Because my dad, he was doing all this stuff so he could prove he was worth immigrating over, back in the day when they were letting Jews out of the Soviet Union. I was born in Moldova.”

 

“So y’all Rooskies?”

 

“I guess. And my dad was from Belarus, and it was a whole thing. And he named me for someone in the tribe of Judah. That’s one of the twelve tribes of Israel.”

 

Cop getting a history lesson said “That’s cool.” Clearly didn’t know why or think so.

 

“I’m named for the grandson of Shammai. Guy who did some sh*t. And my dad, of his two grandkids, he chose Achban. Which means ‘brother of a smart man’.”

 

Abbot smiled.

 

“And I’m the oldest. I didn’t have a brother.”

 

Trooper chuckled a little.

 

Abbot started laughing.

 

Abbot laughed harder.

 

“You okay--”

 

Abbot laughed harder.

 

Abbot laughed so hard his face was going numb, Abbot laughed like his chest was gonna explode.

 

“It’s funny,” Achban muttered. “Because I’m the firstborn, yeah.”

 

That wasn’t why Abbot was laughing.

 

Stuck his face in the seat. 

 

Wheezing.

 

Bigheart’s smile faltered.

 

Abbot was crying.

 

Through laughter, pained laughter - forced laughter trying to keep up, Achban said “Welp.”

 

“And I’m smart, aren’t I?” Abbot asked.

 

“Or understanding, I guess.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

Nobody replied.

 

“I see through sh*t. I understand.”

 

Abbot stopped laughing, because it half-weren’t genuine.

 

Nobody was smiling except for him.

 

Cop’s hand on the door, fingers over an open window. Bigheart said “Well, okay.”

 

“And my name’s Johnny,” Kassian said.

 

Bigheart stared.

 

Bigheart nodded.

 

“He’s not a relative,” Achban smiled. “He’s just down here to chase skirt. Haha. You’d think he was gay, right? But no, he’s not gay. Nothing wrong with that.”

 

Trooper stared.

 

Achban kept eye contact. Dead serious, “They can get married now.”

 

Trooper handed the license back. “Yea- well, uh, well your brother’s sick. And you’re in a rush. And- so I’ll let you off with a warning.”

 

“For what?”

 

Pause.

 

“What?”

 

“You never said what we were stopped for.”

 

Bigheart blinked a little, and he frowned, and he said “You were going twenty over.”

 

“Yeah. Okay.”

 

“So, just. I mean I know it’s late and there’s nobody on the road--”

 

“Just don’t go over, okay.” Achban with the eyes still locked, “Is that everything?”

 

“I’m not gonna write you up.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Yeah, what?”

 

Blinked. Bigheart said “Yeah, well, okay.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Pause.

 

Handed the licenses back.

 

“Have a good night,” Kassian muttered.

 

Achban kept his eyes on him.

 

Pressed the window switch.

 

Glass went up.

 

Bigheart walked away.

 

***

 

It was the morning. They hadn’t slept.

 

Or they had, in shifts. Kept driving for another few hours through Wilmington, outta North Cackalacky through Myrtle Beach. Marshland and plantation towns and never-ending treelines crossing the Santee. Abandoned homes in the shrub when they refilled at the Ron station in McClellanville.

 

Achban was surviving on Debonaires, and he hadn’t slept once.

 

They’d passed enough hotels, they’d passed enough motels.

 

Past strip malls and a YouTool and a million pharmacies and groceries in Sayleway suburbia. A town called Abcaw Peak even though there weren’t any mountains, weren’t any peaks. Flatroad freeway past a clump of cheap places to rest that they passed. The Cavalcade was crossing the water, on the Bageant Moquette Bridge over the Shaftesbury River.

 

Under concrete pylons and twisting cables. Past the stays, big aircraft carrier in the harbor.

 

“This isn’t tenable,” Achban muttered.

 

Kaz was asleep. Abbot said “What?”

 

“We need to stop. We keep driving and we’re gonna die. I’m gonna crash, I can’t f*cking see straight.”

 

Abbot laughed. “You’d like that.”

 

“Okay, f*cking shut the f*ck up.”

 

Lowcountry city with a low-lying skyline of tented church roofs and glinting silver cars along the port terminal.

 

Opened the window. Lit a cigarette with his foot on the pedal and threw the lighter onto the dash, grabbed his phone.

 

 

Into Sayleway.

 

Grand antebellum homes and old factories off the parkway. Old antebellum sort of pretty-style pastel colors: whites and pinks and pistachios and haint blues. Newer low-pay places in burgundy brick and ancient two-three floor places where the paint was so old it was turning black by the edges.

 

Avenue was East Bank Street.

 

Driver swore.

 

Abbot said “What?”

 

Muttered, “Was supposed to turn off here.”

 

Kept driving down East Bank while the storefronts got nicer, the homes got more sparse. Intersection at the Sayleway Rialto where several dozen maybe-tourists-maybe-locals with baby strollers were crowding. Marketplace buzz turning left onto Rialto Street with that same thick pastel paint. Gullah women sewing sweetgrass baskets.

 

Horse carriage. Bike taxi. Another horse carriage. Maybe a dozen.

 

“Remember cousin Ariel?” Abbot asked.

 

Achban didn’t reply.

 

“Remember his buddy Igor? He drives horse carriages, remember? Around Middle Park. A lot of hors--”

 

“I don’t care.”

 

“Neither do I.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“I know you don’t care.”

 

Looked at Abbot through the mirror. “Do you?”

 

“You don’t care about anything. Or what we’ve been doing. Or how my dad lives. Or my work, or how I did anything when you went.”

 

A pause.

 

“You’re right.”

 

There was a Holy Reverend’s on 155 Congregation Street.

 

Car turned in.

 

Big parking lot and building painted baby pink, big hotel logo emblazoned on empty space. Double-floor motel layout with the front office underneath a walkway, walkway surrounding the lot, building in a U shape.

 

Car stopped.

 

Abbot pat Kassian on the shoulder.

 

Abbot nudged Kassian on the shoulder.

 

Yawn.

 

“We’ve stopped.”

 

Achban left.

 

Kaz said “What?”

 

“We’ve stopped,” Abbot repeated.

 

“For who?”

 

“Nobody.”

 

Blinked through sleep. “Okay.”

 

Fuzzy floor mat by the entrance: Holy Reverend’s - Inns • Hotels • Suites. Herringbone floor pattern and herringbone stone-tile pattern at the front desk by the cheap paintings and the open bowl for express checkout keys. Fluorescent lights and office-type ceiling panel and a lady in a pink shirt at the front desk while Achban signed in.

 

By the door: chairs. A bunch. Kaz stood at the other side of the door. Four chairs and two were taken, two heavyset middle-age black women. Sundress and a blue maxi. Talking.

 

Abbot stared at the wall.

 

Cheap painting.

 

Women talking and the noise mixing and the aircon whir and the cheap painting - the cheap painting, a yellow circle smudged a little blurred a little on a white background. White frame.

 

Murmur.

 

Murmur.

 

Women were talking. “--but what I know about them, I reckon--”

 

“There isn’t a lot up there.” This was maxi dress. “I been up Cheraw, it ain’t a big town, ain’t a lot of people--”

 

Floral said “Her house was half sunken in, there was moss on the roof, now what I said--”

 

“It ain’t no good no more. Out there out now. Out how things are.”

 

“What you think, baby?”

 

Blinked.

 

Blinked.

 

They were talking to Abbot.

 

Abbot looked left.

 

They were looking at him.

 

“What? F*ck off.”

 

 

There were flower planters on the balcony rails. Railing with this curling floral pattern, these jutting angles like thorns. View of the parking lot, view of a room service lady with the room service cart and the pink shirt, view of the cars packed together tight-like. View of rusty roof buildings and across-street white rails and palmetto trees beyond.

 

Kassian was squeezing his nose.

 

Leaning against the doorway.

 

Achban got a room a few doors down. He’d said it was a mistake.

 

Kassian was squeezing his nose.

 

Watched the footsteps.

 

“I feel ‘em,” Kaz whispered. “But I can’t get ‘em. Like, the f*ckin’ bumps. And they feel so much f*ckin’ bigger than they are.”

 

“Set the room up for me.”

 

He was still squeezing his nose.

 

Achban was fiddling with the keys.

 

Walked.

 

Walked.

 

Achban was fiddling with the keys.

 

Right up on him. Abbot said “You figure out what car you drive yet?”

 

Brotherman had his hands against the door. One hand now, other rubbed his face, pinched his temple. Sighed. “I’m not--”

 

“How often you make the trek up the coast? Regular? You come to town, shoot the sh*t, head back down, f*ckin’ no big deal?”

 

Was rubbing his face with his palm now. Wasn’t touching the door, hand pressed against his hip. “I’m not in the mood.”

 

“When are you?”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“No, you shut up enough, now you tell me. Ain’t so long ago--”

 

Scoffed, “Ain’t.”

 

“What?”

 

“Ain’t. Tough guy now, f*ckin’ bad boy. Tough guy does the little blue collar thing, he f*ckin’ says ain’t and not aren’t. You picked that up. Is it hard?”

 

“Hard what?”

 

“Hard pretending.”

 

“I oughta’ break your fingers, each one.”

 

“Oh, f*cking cool it.”

 

“I’ve had it with you, I really have.”

 

Sharp turn, “I came in April.”

 

Air on skin.

 

Abbot glared.

 

“Cool look.”

 

“What is this about?” Abbot, “If this is- if this is about what- look--”

 

“When was the last time you saw pa?”

 

Abbot didn’t reply.

 

“When was it? Did you have a good time with him during Hanukkah? I didn’t. I didn’t say sh*t to him, and I don’t want to. I think it’s better to say that than pretend otherwise.”

 

“He was really happy to see you.”

 

“I’m sure.” Face like a statue, “I don’t care, though.”

 

“What has he ever done to you?”

 

“I don’t know, what has he? What’s he done for me? What’s he done for ma, what’s he done for you, what’s he done for anyone? When he put C-notes down for Misha the Cossack, when he moved out of Hove Beach because he couldn't pay the f*ck up, who was he doing it for?”

 

“You ain’t got the right.”

 

“Ain’t.”

 

“f*ck you.”

 

“I didn’t want to see him and I don’t want to see him again. And you told me, what, he couldn’t pay rent? You slipped him money for that? You couldn’t pay your own? But let me ask you this, when was the last time you saw him? Did you tell him you were coming down?”

 

“Where is this coming from?”

 

“You don’t get to pretend this is some thing. It isn’t a thing. This is nothing. He’s a nothing, and he’s a walking nothing, and pretending like he’s ever been more than a nothing--”

 

“He loves you.”

 

“Say it again. I’m sure he does.”

 

“You don’t get to talk like this. Not to me. You pussied out, ma died and you pussied out, and you f*cking ran.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Air on skin.

 

Abbot spat “Yeah?”

 

“Yeah. I pussied out, and I f*cking ran.”

 

Air on skin.

 

Air on skin.

 

Abbot said “f*ck you.”

 

“Say it again.”

 

“f*ck you.”

 

“I cried at the newsstand. I did. I came home and I did, and I sat down on the floor and I didn’t know what to do. I spoke to Kassian in May. I spoke to you in June. I wouldn’t have.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“Sorry for what? No you aren’t. Don’t lie.”

 

“If I did something wrong--”

 

“You’re a junkie and a f*cking mess. You’re a thug. You and your boyfriend, you’re both thugs.”

 

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

 

Scoffed, “Might as well be. And he’s a two-bit lackey f*cking hood, and he’s a pissant and you saw how he was talking about his father. His father, who has done something for me, who means something. Not to him, though. And he hangs out with f*cking idiots. That moron, f*cking Vadim, who I knew. Who’s got a big mouth and a tiny little f*cking brain. Just like Kassian. You, on the other hand, you got the small mouth and the small brain.”

 

Air on skin.

 

“You always held a grudge against me,” Abbot said. “And I said I was sorry.”

 

“You never meant it.”

 

“I did. I didn’t know.”

 

“You’re a degenerate. You’re a thief and a f*cking goon and I saw it in you and I stopped thinking you were anything else. And you did your little bit and you thought you were such a big man while I was gone for f*cking community college and a half-assed nothing job with that f*cking f*ggot Valeriy Sidorov in Beechwood. Computer shop. Capital A achiever.”

 

“I thought he was gonna kill you.”

 

“He wasn’t. And you knew he wasn’t. And it didn’t matter. You came along anyway, and you stole from me, and you f*cking hid. You’re a boy and you’ve always been a boy.”

 

“I am sorry--”

 

“You stole Benefactors on Mohawk and did burnouts at the parking lot on Tulsa. Like some n*gger. And I thought you were smart. Thought you could be. And Teddy goes ‘my son disappoints me and his friends disappoint me’ and I give you the one break you could get. I tell him about you and tell you about him.”

 

“And you’re so big.”

 

“Who gives a sh*t?”

 

“Teddy beat Kassian. Beat him.”

 

“And he f*cking should’ve.”

 

Air on skin.

 

Air on skin.

 

“I’ve never pretended to be someone I’m not,” Abbot said.

 

“You’ve lied to yourself.”

 

“You’ve lied to everyone. And you lied to me, and you lied to pa. But I’m somebody now. I mean something. I drive Benny. I met Kenny Petrovich, I met Roy Zito. And I’m good at this.”

 

“Good at killing?”

 

“You’re probably a killer. You killed my pa, you broke his heart.”

 

“He was dead when ma died.”

 

“He was dead you never came up. And you did. You said you did. You said you did just now and you avoided us--”

 

“I don’t regret it.”

 

“f*ck you.”

 

“You’re a junkie now. You proud of that?”

 

“I thought about you so f*cking often.”

 

“I never thought about you. If pa died I wouldn’t have come up. And I lied to him, and he lied to me. And I lied to you, and you lied to yourself. You lied that you cared about him, and you lied you were worried about him, and you lied you weren’t a hair away from quitting that f*cking job.”

 

“How do you know that?”

 

“You kicked the sh*t out some kid in the office. I heard. I remember when you were a kid and you beat that f*cking spic Burger Shot manager up in the parking lot. I remember that was another square job, another thing you bragged about, another lie. And I know you. I know you more than you tell anyone else. And I f*cking hate you.”

 

“I want to kill you.”

 

“You’d kill yourself. But you’re already dead. Roy f*cking Zito, good job. Kenny Petrovich, bravo. We’ve spoken more than I care to remember, me and Kuzma, and I don’t give one iota of a f*ck about the Italians. That’s an outfit I’ve done business with, and we’re gonna do business with, and I got no respect for.”

 

“Because you’re so big.”

 

“Who gives a sh*t? You and Kassian and your f*ggot little f*cking diatribes. When Lenny was suicidal, I was there. When Lenny tried f*cking blowing his f*cking head off--”

 

“Lenny Petrovich?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“He did?”

 

Achban spat, “Yes, he f*cking did.” Most venom he’d had. Most he broke away from monotone. “You’re a schmuck. You’re a driver and a picayune f*cking hoodlum. Kassian bragging about Al Di Napoli, about some actor he met once.”

 

Air on skin.

 

“You worked for Teddy and killed a man on the day,” Achban said.

 

“I had to.”

 

“Like you had to at the club?”

 

“I thought he was--”

 

“Kenny is friends with the Russian Minister of Defense,” Achban said. “He was in Israel, I came down. I gave him this sword. Oleg Oorzhak, that’s his name. I gave him this ornate f*cking khanda, this Indian sword. I got him a Yanmaodao later; he’s a collector. You know that?”

 

“I don’t care.”

 

“Brag about the bug and the gambling with Pyotr Baazov. I’ve done sh*t you wouldn’t imagine. I’ve met people you wouldn’t dream of.”

 

“I do not care.”

 

“I don’t care about Roy Zito, that queer. I’ve met bigger motherf*ckers than him. But you brag. You gloat. You dance in the shadows. You ain’t got a lot of time left to do it.”

 

“You’re a hypocrite.”

 

“I don’t care,” Achban said. 

 

“You hate us bragging and you’re bragging now.”

 

“I drive an Emperor Magnate,” Achban said. Hand on the door, “It’s real nice. I don’t drive any dipsh*t car like Kaz’d like and I never have and never will. But he’s impressed by those goon friends of his knocking out some boy’s teeth on Crockett Avenue, right? In front of the kids and the tourists.”

 

Air on skin.

 

“You drive Yevdokim’s Cavalcade,” Achban sighed. “Everything you’ve ever had was stolen or a gift. You’re not anybody. And as soon as you are, you won’t be.”

 

Air on skin.

 

“I detest you,” Abbot said.

 

“See you when we wake,” Achban replied.

 

He shut the door.

 

Air on skin.

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

Edited May 19, 2022 by slimeball supreme

[slimeball supreme]

Before It Began

 

He’d wrapped masking tape around the handle months ago so he could grip the thing better. Loaded it - always kept it loaded - just in case, or just for the feel.

 

He didn’t need it. He’d kept a real one on him after he got jumped by the Puerto Ricans.

 

But he loved it.

 

Achban kept it in the Double-P shoebox under the bed. DB-P’s clothing brand, bought the sneakers from the flagship store on Columbus. Was wearing them now, little blue-and-orange stripe down the white. Nicest shoes he owned.

 

Pushed the box under the bed with his foot.

 

Sat open-legged on the carpet of his bedroom.

 

They were gonna move out the house next year. They were gonna close the rug store on Oakley too, book the Cohens across the borough to District Park. Where all the Orthodox Jews and the Hasids lived.

 

They were Adam’s crowd, he said. He was already going to temple there, but Adam Cohen never went to temple.

 

Achban knew Pa was moving the family because he owed Downtown Tommy Frantz maybe two G’s. He was with Misha ‘the Cossack’ Faustin now; stopped working with the Gulag Garden boys and started showing up when Faustin held court at Perestroika with Dima the Jew. Wasn’t beholden to old arrangements.

 

Adam was at the Hove Bazaar across the street from the club when Sergei the Wino and Kesha the Parrot came at him from the entrance. Chased him across the road, beat him in the middle of the traffic on Mohawk with a tire iron and the blunt side of a heavy duty welding torch. Used it like a baseball bat.

 

Adam Cohen had not found God.

 

He was ducking. Still getting a few card games in at the carpet store, still going to the neighborhood ones. But he was ducking. Had decided spending thousands to change everything was worth more than spending a penny.

 

Leather jacket was on the bed - mad blazer-kind he’d seen the guys around the neighborhood wear. Not black, this chestnut colored lookin’ one he saw at Latest Fashion Novelties. Wore the thing under the long-sleeve white Gaunt polo and blue jeans.

 

He was going clubbing. He was gonna network. No, he wasn’t of age, he was seventeen. Yes, he had a plan.

 

Checked the box.

 

Pushed it further under.

 

He’d shaved his head the other week. Ma didn’t like it.

 

Achban did.

 

Had Zip brand cologne and a pair of shades he wasn’t gonna wear. Put the jacket on, already had the cologne. Didn’t check the mirror, didn’t f*cking need to.

 

Stood up strong. Stood up straight.

 

Opened the desk drawer under the LC Cosmos poster and pulled out the gun. Real old piece. Stud Federal, classic .45 gat. Easy to get.

 

Shoved it in the inside pocket of his leather jacket.

 

“Цены смешные. И я думаю, она это знает. Проблема в том, что она единственный человек, продающий такие вещи в округе.” Ma’s friend Olga. Wasn’t sure what she was complaining about, but she wasn’t happy.

 

“Люстры?” Now he knew. Chandeliers.

 

“Единственное известное мне место продажи люстр находится во Дюксе. Так что я либо иду туда, либо к Верочка.” Bitching about how she got ripped off, or was gonna get ripped off. Said they sold chandeliers for less at a place in Dukes.

 

“Я уверен, что они обычно очень дорогие.” Ma said they were probably expensive anyway. Ma was probably right. They were chandeliers.

 

But they were occupied.

 

Took his ear off the door. Opened it.

 

“Я знаю, сколько они обычно стоят. Не так уж много, Лидочка.” Stopped, eyes on the door, “Ой! Ахбан! Вы побрили голову!” She’d seen him.

 

Lidiya went down to the Russian-Jewish community center off Iroquois regularly. Walked, talked, gossiped. Olga went down too, and the girls had tea at the cafes or they went down on the boardwalk. Or they crowded around with the other women on the folding chairs outside the apartments.

 

Hand-painted teapot. Stoneware tea cups. Ma, mousy brown hair with the little face and black see-through knit cardigan. Aircon rattling.

 

Olga with dyed ginger hair, denim foxfur biker jacket. Le Chien scarf. This Turkish boutique on Mohawk Avenue, Illarion Italia, sold nigh-exclusively to babushka types. Olga bought from there, only there.

 

Eyes wide like she’d seen her first husband.

 

Ma with the look. “Пожалуйста, скажите ему, что у него ужасные волосы.” She didn’t like his hair. Wanted everyone to know she didn’t like Achban’s buzz, started every other conversation involving him with it.

 

Achban said “Меня не волнует, что кто-то думает о моих волосах.” Didn’t care what anyone thought about his hair. “Это мои волосы. Не твои волосы.”

 

Olga, “Я думаю, это красиво выглядит.” Thought it looked nice. “Как тот бразильский футболист из Барселоны.” Like the Brazilian football player from Barcelona, forgot his name.

 

“Он не бразилец и не футболист!” Didn’t take too kindly to Olga’s celebrity comparison. Achban did. Made him feel big. “Не то чтобы он Марк Фостенбург.”

 

Not like Mark Fostenburg. Bullsh*t. All sarcastic, “Ма, ты не веришь в меня? Думаю, я мог бы сниматься в кино.”

 

Lidiya smiled. “Я верю в тебя.” Tender.

 

Was Olga broke the little mother-son moment, “Аббат еще выучил русский язык?” Has Abbot learned Russian yet?

 

And the smile on Lidiya’s face faded a little, and she said “Он немного медлителен.” Still hadn’t.

 

“Это не его приоритет. Но для ма это хорошая практика,” Achban concurred. Abbot was slow with it. But good English practice for his mother.

 

Ma said “Адам всегда мог говорить по-английски лучше меня.” Adam could always speak better English. “Всегда хорошо притворяется, что тоже говорит на иврите. Вы помните, как он репетировал эти строки?”

 

Olga laughed. Story about pa: always pretended he spoke Hebrew, always pretended he spoke Yiddish. Rehearsed lines that were bogus, never meant what he pretended they were. A mechanic down on Cisco Street, Evgeniy who went by Eugene, he was a polyglot. Spoke fifteen languages and had been in four or five countries before he came to Liberty. Conversed with Adam in Hebrew. Asked how his day was.

 

Adam told him how to hire a cab.

 

Eugene laughed in his face.

 

Adam got so mad he spat on his shoes. 

 

Eugene was connected with the Gulag Garden boys who held the People’s Court. Eugene’s boss wasn’t pleased. Lenny’s dad.

 

But it was straightened out.

 

Got a good laugh at the card games.

 

Ma and Olga were talking. Chitter-chattering, nonsense.

 

Hadn’t asked where he was going.

 

Counted his lucky f*cking stars when he slipped out the door.

 

No bike.

 

Was feeling the neighborhood tonight.

 

Had been hot. Heatwave was killing. Literally killing. Lights had been going off at different intervals, blackouts between in the middle of the day or in the dead of night. No rain this July. Literally killing. Eight days in and maybe two dozen had dropped dead. Heat stroke.

 

Was spending the days on the boardwalk more than the pool hall. Pool hall had a busted AC, might as well have shut the place down. Babushka ladies sunbathing and Hasids beachcombing.

 

Achban was overdressed. He was already regretting it.

 

The Halal cart guy sold cigars and wrapping paper. Had his place set up on the corner of Wappinger and Mohawk, across the street from the Bazaar. Right in front of where Lamazia used to be. Levan Kurashvilli, the owner of that place, he’d got the joint burned the f*ck down. Got Nik the Greek and two other guys to roll up toilet paper and dunk it in jellied alcohol.

 

It was an empty lot now.

 

Wasn’t hungry. Bought a pack of Homies Sharp from the cart. Said thanks.

 

Underneath the elevated train tracks. Cyrillic signs lit up in neon. Brown bags and guys in leather jackets, sweaty motherf*ckers, drinking in Russian. Said hi.

 

Kesha the Parrot, hooded leather jacket with the thing shrouding his face, said hi back. Achban shook his hand and Kesha pat him on the shoulder, and then a couple steps after Achban spat on the floor and pulled a cigar out.

 

Disposable lighter made the thing taste like sh*t.

 

Postbox Town and the federal savings place. SPAGHETTI and Mulholland’s Shoe World. Аптека, аптека, and аптека. VHS retailer and the Optician’s with the big pair of glasses on the sign.

 

Lenny’s house on Hove 1st. Gulag Garden across the street. Gangsters outside. Newsboy caps and track pants.

 

Tossed the cigar at the fruit market crossing the Parkway onto Crockett.

 

Could see Anton a mile away.

 

Anton was at the bandshell at De Payster. Empty bandshell, just him sitting on the stage. Empty lawn ahead. Trimmed grass a dozen footsteps.

 

Hands in his pockets. Saw Tony looking at him.

 

Tony. Anton with the hair slicked back, greased the f*ck out. Hair on the sides and the chin, shaved ‘stache because someone said it made him look like a fag. And he didn’t think so, and he nearly knocked that f*cking kid’s lights out and threw his bottle down and made himself look real big, but he shaved it anyway.

 

Black-gold silk paisley shirt. Black slacks. Gold rings on three of five fingers on the right hand. Smoking. Portable tape player with the headphones, pulled ‘em down to his neck.

 

Big Tony. In earshot, “You know who’s been lookin’ for youse the other day, Achban?”

 

Achban blinked. “Who?”

 

“Nobody. Haha! Hahaha!” Tongue running his front teeth while he laughed, dropped the f*cking smoke out his mouth. “Are you wearing a jacket?”

 

Nodded.

 

Picking the cigarette off the ground, “It was 115 degrees the other day, you f*cking idiot.” Cigarette ruined, flicked the thing.

 

“I got cigars.”

 

“You got matches?”

 

“No.”

 

“What the f*ck we gonna do with that then?”

 

Shrugged.

 

Tony’d parked his dad Lavrenty’s car on Crockett, across the street right next to the handball courts. Silver Schyster Charade, soft-top convertible roof. Never touched it because he didn’t know how to put it back. 

 

Headphones still around his neck. Fiddled with the keys. Tinny sound ringing out the ear pads.

 

The most beautifullest thing in this world

Is just like that, I get in ya

The most beautifullest thing in this world

Is just like that, I get in ya

 

“Is this a rap night?”

 

“That’s Sundays, that’s tomorrow.” Tony got the door open, “What, because--”

 

“Yeah, f*ckin’ Keith Sweat.”

 

“Keith Murray. It’s a good tape,” sniffed. “They had, uh, Mobb Deep? They was down last week. Funkmaster Flex, he’s always there.”

 

“So that’s Sundays?” Achban in the car.

 

“What am I, f*ckin’ speakin’ f*ckin’ Zulu?”

 

“I hope not, sh*t.”

 

Headphones in the glovebox, tape player in the console. “The DJ’s great.”

 

“Yeah? And he’s wh--”

 

“He’s Russian. Resident DJ, he’s Ukrainian. He’s from here, he’s from Hove Beach. Local guy. DJ Amadeus.”

 

Achban’s brows up. “Yeah?”

 

“I was at- he played in, uh… set at Polygraph.”

 

“In Weir Ridge? They shut that place down after those guys did that thing?”

 

“Before that. He did sets all-the-f*ck--”

 

“Are we gonna go to Polygraph or what the f*ck’re we f*ckin’ doin’ we’re just sittin’ here--”

 

“I’m just saying.” Keys in the ignition, “I’m probably related.”

 

Engine buzz. “Man, f*ck off.”

 

“I’m serious. He’s probably Jewish.”

 

“How the f*ck you know that?”

 

“Everyone here’s Jewish. Russian kid in Hove Beach, he’s Jewish. Blond jews. Jews who say they aren’t Jews. Gentile motherf*ckers who said they’re Jewish to get in and kept pretending might-as-well’ve-converted--”

 

“Then you’re my cousin,” Achban spat.

 

“What?”

 

“If every Jew is related, I’m rela--”

 

“No, no, that’s not what I’m saying--”

 

“What the f*ck are you saying?”

 

Sniffed. Eyes on the road. Didn’t reply.

 

Long beat.

 

Got a scoff.

 

Achban, “Idiot.”

 

“Whatever. Yo, sh*t, yo- I got--” punched his glovebox open and fiddled with the mess with his free hand. Barely looking out the empty road on the Parkway.

 

Turned off right onto Iroquois.

 

“What are you--”

 

“Wanna show you something.”

 

“We get on the Parkway we go faster, you--”

 

“No, no, check it--” pulled a tape out the glovebox. “I love this f*cking song.”

 

“What song? What’re we doing, what song?”

 

Tape in.

 

A second.

 

Ballgame organ.

 

“God f*cking damn it.”

 

Tony blew hard out his f*cking nose. Laughed.

 

Hey, Joey Baseballs? Haya doin’, man?

 

Achban, “Come the f*ck on, man.”

 

Hey not fa’ nothin, how are the Swingers doin’?

 

“It’s been a good season.”

 

“f*ck off.”

 

Ah, fuggedaboudit, haya doin’, what a year it’s been! My boy Charlootz called, he wants us to do a little somethin’ special for the fellas.

 

“I hear this sh*t enough on Lips 106, man, we could f*cking turn it to Lips right now and it’d probably be f*cking on, man, come on.”

 

Swingers

Haya doin’? Ha-haya doin’?

Swingers

Haya doin’? Ha-haya doin’?

 

“Nah,” Tony was saying, “it’s been a good season. It’s been a good season.”

 

“I don’t need to f*cking hear this f*cking song all the f*cking time to know that.”

 

“Up here, hold on.”

 

“Up here what? We won in ‘98, we won in ‘96. I don’t need to f*ckin’ hear it over and f*ckin’- f*ckin’ over again, I don’t needa--”

 

“And we’re gonna win this year and next year too, look over there.”

 

Car slowing. “Look what?”

 

The Pinstripes. 35 American League pennants. 24 World Championships, on the drive for 25, haYA DOIN’!

Ahh yeah, playin’ in Bohan, in the house dat Unk built, in Liberty City, the greatest city in da’ world haYA DOIN’?!

 

Parked up on the corner of Hove 7th and Iroquois. Shuttered bodega up the road, storefront spatter at the base of apartments. Exterminator and translation services. Tony pointing left, left, left. Big grin on his face.

 

Left. Спиртной Магазин - Wine & Liquor. Eastern Fruits & Vegetables.

 

Spin on This! - 24 Hour Laundromat. What Tony was pointing at.

 

Kind of chuckled at the name. “Okay.”

 

Tony said “Yeah, huh?”

 

“Funny name.”

 

Smile broke, “Not the f*cking name.”

 

“What? What?”

 

Not fa’ nothin’, what’s with the bigshots with the cellphones and the suits- PLEASE!

Gimme the bleacher creatures any day, haya doin’!

 

“That place,” Tony pointed. “Is owned by a gangster.”

 

“You seen it?”

 

“Oh yeah, I f*ckin’ seen it.”

 

“Who in the neighborhood? Anyone we know?”

 

“No, no, no. Nobody from the neighborhood. Real gangster. Not Faustin or nobody, I mean the mafia. I mean Gambettis.”

 

White sign. Out on the corner. White Karin Feroci parked out front. Achban rubbed his nose. “Yeah?”

 

“I seen a f*ckin’ van. Outside. There was guys in it. I tapped on the window, nobody answered. I heard voices, nobody answered. Listen, they don’t do that with guys from the neighborhood. And I saw guys in shell suits, wop guys, and I saw them go in and I saw ‘em go out.”

 

“So that’s it?”

 

“No, no no. And the guy’s in the papers, all the f*cking time. The guy who owns it. And he’s got two other places. Real young guy. Roy Zito, you know Roy the Wrist?”

 

“I think, yeah.”

 

“He owns it.”

 

“No sh*t.”

 

“And this is his new one, he opened it up here. Roy Zito, he does the fireworks on 18th and the Christmas turkeys. And he does work with blacks and Angels of Death and everybody and even some Russian guys, maybe.”

 

Dumb grin on Achban’s face. “That’s so f*cking cool. Why the f*ck is he doing dry cleaning?”

 

“He’s reformed now.”

 

“What?”

 

“He did a bid and got out early and he’s reformed now, he’s a businessman. And his business is he’s dry cleaning. And he’s Jon Gravelli’s kid.”

 

Quick, “He’s got a son, Don Jon. Roy don’t even got the same surname.”

 

“No, like he’s Jon’s aide. Roy’s buddies with his kid but he’s Jon’s son, basically. Like Roy answers directly to him and Sonny Bottino. And he’s f*cking here. Like he’s vice president.”

 

“But he’s reformed now, he ain’t a mafiosi no more.”

 

“No, that’s all bullsh*t. Horn said he got some guys killed. Feds wanna say he deals coke out these places and cleans out blood stains from suits and sh*t.”

 

Tried watching the windows. Lights were on. One guy inside. Scanned for movement, scanned for anything.

 

“Cleans blood outta suits?”

 

Tony said “Yeah. Forensics evidence sh*t.”

 

“That’s nonsense. What’re we doin’, is this a f*ckin’ Al Di Napoli movie? That’s bullsh*t.”

 

Little umm-ahh, “S’what they said on Page Six.”

 

“But he did kill somebody?”

 

“That’s why he was in prison. And he’s still with Gravelli. And he still- and he still got some goons to kill some kids in Bantonvale with a sawn-off the other month. And the kid he was trying to kill, he f*cking killed himself, he was so f*cking scared. Roy’s a capo now.”

 

“He’s a capo?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“How old is he?”

 

“He’s a young guy. He’s also ripped, dude, he’s like Adonis.”

 

“That’s not a f*cking age, Tony.”

 

“Twenty-five, twenty-six?”

 

“And he’s capo?”

 

“Yeah, he runs a crew now.”

 

“Italians is old as f*ck, all the guys who run things in the Italians is old as sh*t. If he was Russian I could see it, but the Italians don’t trust nobody younger than forty with anything.”

 

“He’s got juice on the street, he’s a big earner, he’s got like ten guys with ten guys to each guy, he’s running things. He’s a capo. It ain’t unprecedented.”

 

“Ain’t what?”

 

“It’s happened before,” Tony said. “And Jon loves him. I’m gonna talk to him.”

 

“Get the f*ck outta here.”

 

“I’m gonna talk to Roy Zito. He’s come down before. I’m gonna talk to Roy Zito. I mean, I’m a big guy. We can get something going.”

 

“Shut the f*ck up, man.”

 

“I pay you, man, you deal my sh*t.”

 

“Okay, f*ck, pot is one thing. Pot is one thing. My dad runs the card games, I mean, that I can do, but I mean that’s like the neighborhood. That’s not Italians.”

 

Tony nodding. Tony nodding and not looking at Achban. “I’m gonna talk to him this week.”

 

“It’s Saturday.”

 

“Monday or Tuesday or whoever counts or f*cking whatever. Don’t be an ass. And sh*t, who knows who’s gonna be where we’re going, and we’re gonna make some f*cking hookups. He’s gonna respect it.”

 

“He’s gonna respect what? You dealing pot?”

 

“That I got the balls to speak to him.”

 

They’d been idling for minutes.

 

Achban realized the song was still looping.

 

“Can we turn this f*cking sh*t off?”

 

Tony turned it louder and drove.

 

***

 

Aircon blasting. Song on repeat for half an hour.

 

Hey, Cottonmouth… oh! Chop this!

There’s only one team of the Nineties! The Swingers, so haya doin’?!

 

Crossed the borough on the Baldric, took the Broker-Garden Tunnel into Financial. Traffic up the ass heading northbound on Union Drive West. International Center of Exchange’s fist up high. LaDiDa, Meat Quarter, Westminster. West River pier greenery.

 

Passed the club.

 

Oh! What jersey you gonna wear tonight?

I dunno, I was thinkin’ about wearin’ my Fuqua jersey.

Only problem is, the girls won’t leave me alone!

 

Stopped the car.

 

Song went zip.

 

“f*cking finally.”

 

“Yo, f*ck off.”

 

“Like being cycled through a washing machine a f*ckin’ hour, Tony.”

 

Opened the driver door with an elbow, “Shut up.”

 

Front facade of the building faced the West River, between Avenues J and I. Two blocks from the Union Train Yard, three from Blutegel Exhibition Hall. Used to be a car manufacturing plant. Only auto factory in the city.

 

That was a long time ago.

 

Parked up by an abandoned lot. Tire shop across the street.

 

The club was Death by Machines.

 

Entrance to the side. Nobody used the front. Big black letters on the brickface, CLASSIQUE MOTORS, shuttered door. Glass entrance facing the avenues, there were two, were both blocked by concrete. Arch shaped glass, three floors tall, blacked out. Unopenable doors.

 

The owner, Gay Tony, he was an eccentric. Nutso motherf*cker.

 

Stragglers out front. Nutso motherf*ckers too.

 

Couldn’t hear the music.

 

Cars on Union Drive West. Greenery. White van and a couple others parked in front of the door, ticket in the window of one. Tony stopped, “You know the plan?”

 

“Are you kidding me?”

 

“Yeah, okay. Listen. Okay. Okay, come here. Listen.” Right up close. Out his pocket, pen-sized breath freshener. “Let’s blow the stink off.”

 

Achban opened his mouth like he was at the dentist.

 

Sprayed. “Get the stink off. Blow the stink off ya’.”

 

Like it mattered. Sweaty f*cking club. Was gonna smell like sh*t regardless.

 

Rounded the corner.

 

Goddamn.

 

Cobblestone on I7 Street. Line ran down the whole block. Achban expected it, but it was just nuts to see. Maybe a hundred heads, maybe more, packed on the sidewalk on the horizon. Wouldn’t have been surprised if the line never ended.

 

Six or more bouncers at the entrance. Tucked black fatigues. Two gnarly black women, fat latino guy, white guy by the door on main duty. Others lining the street keeping the traffic off or stopping the line from spilling. Crowd barriers and parked sports bikes.

 

Tony pointed. White guy.

 

“That’s him?”

 

Nodded.

 

White bouncer. Big guy, bodybuilder. Tony and Achban both taller than the guy, moonface fauxhawk looker in a skin-tight t-shirt - black - around taut biceps. Arms crossed. Saying no a lot.

 

“I do the talkin’,” Tony grinned.

 

“Of course. That’s Max Little?”

 

“Yeah. What?”

 

“Thought he’d be bigger, you said.”

 

“He’s f*cking huge.”

 

“No, I mean, like… taller. Looks like five-foot-five.”

 

Max Little: Vinewood wannabe. Wrote college films, acted in stage productions. Sold lightbulbs on the side-side when he wasn’t working the door.

 

Tony and Achban went to the front of the line.

 

People got f*cking pissed.

 

Shouting. Cacophony.

 

Built black lady behind them, “What the hell are you--”

 

Tony shouting “Max! Max!” Clapping, “Max Max Max!”

 

Max, real deep voice, “Get the f*ck back, moron!”

 

“It’s Tony! Anton!”

 

“What?”

 

Black lady said “Get the f*ck back--”

 

Tony, “No, no, no, I’m a friend of Max-a-Million!”

 

“I don’t know nobody named Tony, get--”

 

“You know Limpy Man?”

 

And Max’s skin went white a little, and he went “Oh, f*cking cocksucker.”

 

“Anton Lavrentyevich Eidelman! Tell him thanks!”

 

Black lady said, “Max--”

 

Max puttered, “Yeah, f*ck. No, let ‘em through.”

 

“We check ID--”

 

“No check, come on,” lifted the velvet rope. “Just let ‘em in.”

 

“Max--”

 

Hurried, “Just let ‘em in! Let ‘em in. I’m gonna go with, hold on,” arm around Tony’s shoulder - looked stupid as hell since Tony had a couple inches on him - “You too, buddy.”

 

Could barely hear him. Guys on the line were f*cking pissed. Big latino bouncer, he was mad as hell.

 

“You got any weapons on you?”

 

They were inside the entrance now. Entrance pre-lobby, entrance with the cashier’s desk. Stripped bare: black floor, black walls, black ceiling. No more shouting. Lady checking her nails. Tony said “Yeah, obviously.”

 

Stopped. “You can’t take ‘em inside.”

 

“I got a switchblade, hold on--”

 

“And you?” Looked at Achban, arm off Tony’s shoulder.

 

“I got a forty-five.”

 

“You give that to me, right now.”

 

Hands up, “Okay, okay. You just never know--”

 

“I don’t care, you gotta give that to me.”

 

Took the jacket off. Inside out, grabbed the thing, handed it to him by the barrel. The cashier didn’t even look up. Max swiped it, said “I’m gonna give you passes and you ain’t gonna get searched by the teams. You ain’t told me nothin’, I woulda’ got ‘em to check you, but I appreciate the honesty--”

 

Tony, “We appreciate the hospitality.”

 

“Can you do me a favor?”

 

“Oh, sure.”

 

“Can you tell Mendel to f*cking stop with this sh*t? Because I’m real f*ckin’ tired letting jumped up cocksucker f*cking kids like you punks into the club, they’re gonna fire me--”

 

Mendel was Limpy, and Limpy was Anton’s cousin. “You still want his coke?”

 

Looked at the floor.

 

Grinned, “I’ll tell him you did good.”

 

Achban cackled.

 

Lobby.

 

God.

 

Party started from the get. Search team built the same as the goon bouncers, football linemen-types in tight black. Entrance was nuts. They’d installed urinals.

 

Urinals.

 

Toilets placed here-and-there, connected to nothing, jammed in the middle of the floor like you could bump into them. Fuzz-covered seats. Vending machine, manned by some gay kid with blue hair and leather pants, he said “Cigarettes? Condoms?”

 

Fluorescent lights getting dimmer. Dimmer.

 

Music getting louder. Coat check clerk, skinny Asian guy with a powdered face and a red mesh shirt. Toothpick in his mouth.

 

“Anton Lavrentyevich Eidelman.” Tony shook the guy’s hand.

 

The guy frowned, nodded, took Achban’s coat. Pointed ahead.

 

Tony pointed at the guy, grinned.

 

The club.

 

Insanity.

 

Door into the lounge. Club itself was long, narrow. Bar maybe seventy-five feet wide just going on, just going on. Lights going bonkers flashing white and flashing red and going dark. 

 

DJ booth was three floors up. Suspended box surrounded by mezzanine, guys leaning over and talking. Words impossible to hear - trance at a thousand decibels and bodies swimming together.

 

Lost for words.

 

Achban shouted “Where is he?!”

 

Tony wasn’t listening. Just immersed in it.

 

Black guy bumped into him, almost spilled his drink, yelled something Achban didn’t hear but Achban spat “Back the f*ck off” right back. Said again, “Where the f*ck- Tony! Tony!”

 

“Yeah?!”

 

“Where the f*ck did you say he’d be?!”

 

Blinked and grabbed his forehead and blinked again. “Goddamn it.”

 

Waded forward.

 

Goddamn it.

 

Crowd of a thousand people. Crowd of a thousand freaks. Leather vest guy with green dreads, backwards cap motherf*cker with his hair bleached white, insane people Achban wouldn’t be caught dead with. All wasted, all drunk or high out their f*cking minds.

 

Music blaring.

 

Couldn’t see anything.

 

Tony ahead, grabbed him on the shoulder, “What the f*ck are you doing?! You said--”

 

“He’s in- f*ck! Back off me!” Screamed at some woman with a padlock keychain.

 

Achban yelled “Where is he?!”

 

“He hangs out- c’mon, I can’t f*cking hear anything!”

 

Lights were flicker-flickering blue and white now, blinding. Music hitting a fever pitch, like a non-stop scream. Crowd going crazy. Had Tony by the shoulder so he wouldn’t lose him.

 

Beat slowed.

 

Beat kicked into gear.

 

Crowd went wild again.

 

At the end of the dance floor: doorway, bathrooms.

 

Opened into the bathroom.

 

More f*cking chaos.

 

Knew the bathrooms at Death by Machines were unisex. Everyone knew that.

 

Someone was f*cking on the urinal. Woman keeled over with her face plastered against bright green tile, club kids laughing and hocking marijuana. Attendants shirtless with bowties. Wow.

 

“Tony, buddy, where the f*ck are they?”

 

“I’m losing my mind, man.”

 

“Tony.”

 

“I’m gonna eat shoot and f*ckin’ leave, man, there are fags everywhere--”

 

“Everyone’s here.”

 

“What’s the f*cking Easton art guy who runs the f*cking cafe or bar or whatever here?” Breathless.

 

“What?!”

 

“They hang there.”

 

“This place is like a f*cking shopping mall.”

 

“They hang there.”

 

“I thought this was your thing? You’ve been to this DJ’s shows, you’re the club kid?”

 

“I don’t f*cking know what is f*cking going on, Achban, I f*cking don’t.”

 

“Are we gonna network? Where the f*ck are the guys?”

 

“The Altar of Venus,” Tony choked out. “Lin Hoefle’s Altar of Venus. It’s like a bar but it’s also an art installation. They have a ballpit somewhere, too.”

 

Achban blinked. “...Where’s that, then?”

 

“I have no f*cking idea.”

 

Thought.

 

Stepped back a moment.

 

Tapped the shirtless bathroom attendant with the bowtie’s shoulder. Asked “You know where the Altar of Venus is?”

 

And he said, rather cheerful, “Oh, you just leave the bathroom and turn right. Just down the hall.”

 

“Cool.”

 

Tony looked like he was gonna f*ckin’ spew.

 

Out the bathroom.

 

Turned right.

 

Tony muttered “Piece of sh*t f*cking queer,” closer to the Altar of Venus entrance got louder and said “You shouldn’t have talked to him.”

 

“He knew.”

 

“Okay. But he was a faggot.”

 

“The club’s owner is named Gay Tony, Tony.”

 

“Lay off.”

 

Lin Hoefle’s Altar of Venus.

 

Different music in there. Space age disco sh*t. Place looked like a laser tag arena: stars-and-night-sky roof decals, stainless steel lounge chairs polished like mirrors. Pink leather couches. Neon paint and nonsense patterns splattered all over the walls, blue fur on the walls. Wall-to-wall lava lamps like fish tanks. They’d left the galaxy.

 

A hundred heads while the lights danced in dry ice and blacklight. 

 

“What was that Candy Suxxx movie?” Achban grinned.

 

Anton wiped his face. Barely balancing. “There,” pointed.

 

At the far corner, by cash registers covered in glitter and cashiers who looked like they’d dunked their heads in paint buckets, three guys at one of the wrap-around benches.

 

Tacky dresser. Clean shaven with the hairline receding, widows peak forming with the fringe pushed down. Brown velour button-up. Pattern like a 70’s sofa cushion. Sleeve rolled up picking at zits on his arm. Vanya the Terrible - Ivan Bytchkov.

 

Big guy. Monobrow, black beard, Caesar bangs, heavy features, white turtleneck choking him. Neanderthal rubbing his palms together and squawking at the third man. Aleksey. Aleksey went by Goralski, which weren’t his real surname and he weren’t really Polish, but it was on his documentation. Went by Alonso ‘cause he was a f*cking idiot, thought it sounded close enough. Got called Polish Alonso, Polish Alyosha, Польский. The Pole.

 

Third man. Flashy dresser, fly dresser. Handsome blond kid with heavy ice, Crowex dangling off a loose wrist, black silk vest, geometric twill slacks with shined-out loafers. Hockey player, winger for the Liberty Rampage. Kirill Moros. Called him the Russkie Rampage, fast as all hell and bulldozed f*ckers on the ice.

 

Knew Polish Alonso and Ivan the Terrible from his pa’s card games, though only vaguely. That, and the prestige. Everyone knew them.

 

They were here for them.

 

Knew they came here. Knew they’d be impressed if they came too.

 

“Oh, f*ck yeah,” Achban uttered. “We got this.”

 

Tony was sweating so bad it looked like his skin was made of wax. “On the money,” sincerity drained. Curled up his tongue, repeated himself, “We’re on the money.”

 

Started the approach. Tony grabbed him by the shoulder, but grabbed too weak. Achban kept going.

 

Anton followed.

 

Vanya the Terrible was picking his nose. Was wiping it off on the stainless steel before he looked up, looked into Tony’s eyes, looked at Tony’s extended hand. 

 

Tony grinned.

 

“Anton Lavrentyevich Eidelman.”

 

Got a squint back.

 

Repeated louder, “Anton Lavrentyevich Eidelman. My friends call me Tony. You can call me Tony, Ivan, since I think we’re gonna be good friends.”

 

Blinked. “What?”

 

“I’m Russian. I’m from the neighborhood, I’m from Hove Beach, I know you. Я делаю разного рода работу. Я сделаю все, что вы меня попросите.”

 

“We’re not in Hove Beach,” Ivan said. “And this is America. Act like it, man. I don’t one or another f*ck you speak Russian.”

 

Tony still had his hand out. Weakly retracted, “But you heard what I said, right?”

 

Polish Alonso with this sneer, “You say something? I didn’t hear.”

 

“I said to Vanya--”

 

“No,” Ivan said.

 

Blinked. “I said to-... what?”

 

“Don’t call me that.”

 

Anton off his balance, tight-rope shaking. “I said I can do anything at anytime, any time you want. This is my associate, Achban Cohen.”

 

And Ivan’s eyes flickered, “Oh, yeah! You’re- your father, I know him. He’s the little guy, real screwhead.” Extended a hand.

 

“Yeah,” Achban said. High fived. Wanted to minimize contact.

 

Ear-to-tear grin, “Alright, man! This is Alyosha, this is- oh, you know Polish Alonso.” Paused for a little nod, “This, you know Kirill Moros?”

 

Obviously. Extended a hand, blond kid shook, “How the f*ck are ya’?”

 

Tony extended his and Kirill politely returned the favor, “Having a good time, brother, это отличная вечеринка. Good coke,” tapped his nostril and got a laugh from Alonso. “Season’s over, you know, good times.”

 

“I sell coke,” Tony bragged.

 

“Okay.”

 

“I got your jersey at home. You guys didn’t make playoffs.”

 

Kirill’s smile faded. “Thanks.”

 

“Yeah, Achban works for me,” Tony said. “And he’s a real dependable guy, he can do any kinda sh*t. I got this whole thing going. You wanna talk business, we can expand--”

 

Alonso to Achban, “What do you do?”

 

Achban, “Can we sit down?”

 

“Yo, будь моим гостем!” Invited, “What you do? Sit down, sit down.”

 

Which Achban did. Tony didn’t, stood with his arms crossed, lorded over. “I know what you guys are up to, you guys do what you do in the neighborhood, I know that. The Medicaid stuff, I heard about that.”

 

Ivan, “Who said what about that?” No smile, harsh tone.

 

Tony picked up on it. “You know, just around, you know. Just, y’know, y’know, just, uh- here and there.”

 

Nodded. “Sure.”

 

Achban, “Tony’s on the block, me and some other guys--”

 

“Next level sh*t!” Tony said. “We do what we do. I got some guys I met in high school.”

 

Alonso, “How old are you?”

 

“Old enough,” Achban said.

 

Ivan cackled. “That’s intense, man.”

 

Corniest f*cking line in the book, but hey, if it worked. “We have our ways.”

 

“Ahh! Hahaha!”

 

Anton, “My supplier Limpy--”

 

“On the block,” Achban said. Working with Ivan, Ivan who seemed impressed by action movie lines, “it’s hustle or be hustled. You gotta do what you do.”

 

Off the floor, Alonso picked up an empty martini glass. “So you deal sh*t?”

 

“Dope,” Tony said.

 

“No, r*tard. You deal sh*t, or you deal sh*t?”

 

Squinted. “Yo?”

 

Achban picked up on the intent, “The product’s top. It’s molly, china white, pot. We got corners around the neighborhood, it works.”

 

Tony just muttered “Yeah, basically that.”

 

“We got jumped a while back.”

 

And Ivan’s eyes jumped. “You gut some little bastards?”

 

“Sure. Mean motherf*ckers. But you always gotta stay strapped.”

 

Tony, “That’s right, that’s right.”

 

Dancing lights in Ivan’s eyes. “So you two, you have to deal with that?”

 

“Not me.”

 

Lights flickered. “Oh.”

 

“I mean-” thrown off balance, “I mean we all- well, I’m the business side and you know it’s--”

 

“Nah,” Achban smirked. Clapped, “We gave ‘em a pat on the ass, we sent ‘em on. No.” Rubbing his hands together now, “No, we did ‘em in. These beaner guys, whole platoon.”

 

“I didn’t fight.” Everyone ignored Tony. “Hey Kirill, you give autographs?”

 

Kirill said “With what?”

 

Blinked. He had no pen. Instantly spoke over, “American muscle motherf*cker. Beaners?” Ivan nodding, sniffing, “Mexicans or something?”

 

“Puerto Ricans,” Achban spat. “I didn’t even need the gat. I carry one on me. But I went Al Di Napoli on them. Me and my boy Kassian--”

 

Tony, “I got an organization--”

 

“I get this one guy on me. Durag cocksucker. Durag cocksucker goes ‘You can’t deal on this block’. I tell him straight, this ain’t the towers, spic motherf*cker. Boom. I hit this punk in the guts. We scrap.” Stopped a moment, Ivan with this stupid smile. Alonso nodding. “He’s got a bunch of losers on him. They steal my jacket, they hit my homeboy in the nuts.”

 

“We lost--”

 

“But I kick that durag cocksucker’s wormy little face in, bro. Just bam, just bam.” Looked to Tony, “Anything we lost, we got it back, otherwise we’d be incompetents.” That was a lie, didn’t want Tony undermining him.

 

Anton wanted to object. Didn’t. “Yeah yeah yeah. Sodomized them motherf*ckers.”

 

“Yo, pause. No homo.”

 

Ivan cracked up at that. 

 

Tony didn’t.

 

“You gotta meet someone,” Ivan beamed.

 

Alonso put a hand up, hacked up a little “Ты уверена--”

 

“Эти дети веселые. Маленькие американские задира!” Little American bully. Said it almost proud: wasn’t sure if he was mocking or not. Vanya the Terrible didn’t seem smart enough for that.

 

Kirill, “You mean the guy, right?”

 

“Yea’, yea’!”

 

“With the what-what? Knows Nikolai Nikolaevich,” laughed. Slang for coke. Drug dealer.

 

Alonso beaming, “Дед Мороз!”

 

“I’m jonesing, bratan.”

 

Saw his in, Tony half-yelled “Продаю кокосы!”

 

“You got some on you?”

 

Immediately said “No.”

 

Ivan was already on his feet. Maybe 6’3, maybe 6’4 - one tall, tacky motherf*cker. “We’re going, baby, we hook up again. This intense, man, this crazy, man. Come on.”

 

Gangster buddies up with him, already moving. Alonso at his height, little Kirill at 5’8 overcompensating with a jitter-jitter leg shake, high as a kite.

 

Tony, “Мы идем с тобой, братан?”

 

And Ivan screamed “Speak f*cking English, goddamn it!” Alonso laughed with him. Beckoned with his fingers at Achban, went off toward the exit.

 

Altar of Venus behind them. 

 

Darkened hallway. Tony tagged along, pushed forward, talked to Alonso and the hockey player. Achban couldn’t hear. Wasn’t sure the men were listening.

 

Music pumped. Music screamed.

 

Pantyhose posse pushed through crowd, lights flashed. Crazy-lookers drink-handed while Anton sauntered, while the crazy-lookers parted. Red sea of a thousand red heads while the rave-lights flashed red, white, off. Red, white, off.

 

Bar. Past heads unturned, posse turned to the lounge up ahead. Club kids and the very importants. Tony laughing now, nobody laughing with him.

 

Black leather seating. Black guy and a white kid. Champagne bottle between them.

 

White kid was college-aged, maybe. Gelled hair slicked back, square jawed skinny runt. Olive skinned with a St. Christopher medallion over a monogrammed Flying Bravo dress shirt. Sleeves rolled up showing jungle-hair arms thick as pool noodles.

 

“Dollface! Tony!” Ivan shouted.

 

Tony looked up. Ivan wasn’t looking at him. Was looking at the black fella - goatee, oversized acetate glasses and a fruity wardrobe. Penetrators jersey under a tartan sports coat. Backwards hot pink Wombo beret, fuzzy as hell.

 

Black man shook hands with Ivan, went in for the dap. White boy said “You came back for more, cheech?”

 

Kirill screeched “Oh, f*ck yeah, man! Oh, f*ck yes!”

 

And white boy laughed.

 

Anton already had a hand out. Big sh*t-eating grin. “Anton Lavrentyevich Eidelman. Pleased to meet youse.”

 

White boy stopped laughing. Looked at Ivan, yelled over the music “Who’s these?”

 

Ivan said “Intense, man. Crazy motherf*cker!” Behind Achban, grabbed him by the shoulder, “This kid real f*cking action star motherf*cker, man, he high-fived me, f*cking badass.”

 

Squinted. “They want blow?”

 

Tony repeated himself, “Anton Lavrentyevich Eidelman, man.”

 

Got a smile back, white boy shook his hand. “That so? Hey, you wanna do me a favor, cowboy?”

 

“Oh, hell yeah, I can do anything. Me--”

 

Pulled a hundred dollar bill out the jacket, “You go to the bar, okay?”

 

Eager, “Yeah?”

 

“You tell the bartender. Xander, he’s my man. You tell him, get him what Frankie ordered, get it again.”

 

“You’re Frankie?”

 

“I’m Frankie. That’s right.”

 

“Okay.” Eager nodding, looked at Achban, “Okay!”

 

Waddled off.

 

Russians were settling on free seats. Achban still standing, Frankie gave a hard sigh. “Who’s the kike munchkin muddaf*ck’ ‘n when’s he gettin’ back on the f*ckin’ jew bus?”

 

Alonso said “What?”

 

Doing circles with his finger, “Goddamn District Park yeshiva bus, the f*ckin’ hasidics take sh*ts and vomit in the muddaf*cka’s or whatever, can the little faggot go the f*ck home?”

 

“Him?” Ivan spat on the ground, “Little выскочка, nobody. This kid,” meant Achban, “he beat up, like, two f*cking Mexicans and kick sh*t out them, Dollface.”

 

Frankie back at Achban. “Alright. So you’re good?”

 

Achban, “I’m freakin’ fantastic.”

 

“I got base, powder, I got ‘Derney speed. They let me in, they let me out. Frankie the Guappo. You deal?”

 

Young Italian blowhard. Go figure. “His sh*t,” thumbed back at the bar.

 

“So he’s the businessman?”

 

Shrugged. “That’s what he wants to be.”

 

Laughed at that. “I know f*ckin’ midgets put juice out on the street, get earners around ‘em, ride on coattails! You’re the coattails?”

 

“It’s a big coat.”

 

“You here to spread the love?” Asked if Achban was here to deal.

 

Achban extended a hand. “I’m Achban Cohen. And yeah, blame my dad.”

 

Was shaking it when he said “He earn?”

 

“He’s a cheapskate crook f*ckin’ hood,” Achban sang. Sat down, “I ain’t here to deal, just here to mingle.”

 

Arms wide, “I know everybody. I got two other wiseguys in this place, I got Pete Paul Pete by the door, Joey Chicken Nuggets too. There’s Stevie Buffet Car somewheres, that freak. I’m a personal friend of the owner, Gay Tony. You know Gay Tony, I don’t know where that queen is. This,” pointed to the black man, “this man’s an elephant dick. Anton Beaudelaire.”

 

Beaudelaire was in his own head. Frankie pat him on his shoulder, guy snapped out of it. “This is great!”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“The feng shui is phenomenal! My god.”

 

“Seriously though,” Frankie said. “You want a favor, anything? You want to deal? You f*ckin’ waste some muddaf*ck’? Always lookin’ for people on the street, guys with f*ckin’ fists. Like the f*ckin’ pop you snap a man’s f*ckin’ bone, addicts for this sh*t.”

 

Little psychopath. Achban was giddy. “I’m from Broker, man, I’m from Hove Beach.”

 

“Hove Beach Achban, okay. That’s a name to remember. Garone. That’s my name. Say it three times, I come out the mirror, f*ck ya’ mudda’, fist up her f*ckin’ ass,” mimed it. “I’m a f*ckin’ genie. I make snow outta rain. Ain’t that right, Tony?”

 

Tony was back with the bottle. Grin hadn’t faded, $90 Blêuter’d in both hands dripping perspiration. Said “Yeah?”

 

“Not you, r*tard.” Alonso snatched the bottle. Passed it over.

 

“You said Frankie Garone, right?” Tony again. Like he didn’t hear the insult.

 

Frankie said “What?! Sure! That’s me.”

 

“You’re Ancelotti.”

 

Which stroked the guinea’s ego, guy put on airs, “Frankie the Guappo. Name goes around, goes around.”

 

“Tony Black?”

 

Beaudelaire said “Yes? Salutations and all.”

 

“No- it- no, I mean ya’ godfather--”

 

And Frankie cackled, “Not in the movie way, you f*ckin’ spastic! I’m his godson, sure. My family ain’t your business or this business. Tony Black’s my rabbi.”

 

“You’re Jewish?”

 

“Spastic! Spastic!” To Achban, “You deal with this f*ckin’ spaz?”

 

Achban laughed.

 

“I just know all kinda things,” Tony shaky. “I got my ear to the street! You got made, I heard.”

 

“Shut the f*ck up.” Venom in Frankie’s voice.

 

“You got made young! I’m like that, I’m ambitious. I wanna meet ambitious people. Can you get me in touch with Roy Zito? He’s got a laundromat on--”

 

“Shut the f*ck up! Spastic! Wiretap boy, wiretap spastic!” Smacked Tony across the f*cking head, “You’re a real f*ckin’ baciagalup’, real spaz, stupid mamaluke f*ckin’ moron.”

 

Achban’s head in his hands, dying laughing.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I got you the drink.”

 

Frankie stood up. “I’m gonna get another.”

 

“That was ninety dollars, you spent.”

 

“Where’s the ten?”

 

Eyes on Tony.

 

Pulled it out his pocket.

 

Frankie snatched it. “I can buy a thousand.”

 

Cork pop. Beaudelaire’s hands around the bottle, no foam, just gulped. Passed it to Alonso.

 

Troupe carried on to the bar. No stools.

 

Frankie led. Achban followed.

 

Tony tagged along.

 

Group of seven now. Russians at the back, Frankie at the front. Enough to really part crowds. Frankie said “Ivan said you kick the sh*t outta Mexicans?”

 

“Puerto Ricans,” Achban said.

 

“Deal crack, coke. That’s the problem, they think they’re entitled to every corner in Broker.”

 

“Yo,” Achban said. “Base is for niggers. I don’t sell to jigs, that’s my personal thing, I don’t trust ‘em.”

 

Nodded. “Smart man. You don’t wanna touch the titsoon, Tony Black taught me that early. You get people to go between, you ever wanna sell uptown. Good money in the zoo, you just gotta know how to get it.”

 

Achban nodded back, lesson sinking. “I broke this little Puerto Rican’s face. I just do what I do. Anton Beaudelaire, what does he do? Seems okay for a coon.”

 

At the bar now, Frankie shooing away Xander and letting the crowd spread. “Movies, Vinewood crazy. Personal friend. No gorilla.” 

 

Which got Beaudelaire’s head between the two, “Movies, I f*cking hate that miserable f*cking word. Primordial twenties nonsense. Not the f*cking talkies.”

 

“Films.”

 

“Suffering and blood. Real suffering, no exploitation, stories they don’t want to tell because they’re afraid. Vicious urban granularity that grinds bones to goddamn dust.”

 

“Okay,” Achban said.

 

“You’re doing some commercial,” Frankie said, “Anton’s doing it for- who is it for?”

 

“The button fly jeans for Ranch. This beautiful field of sunflowers in Quinnebaug. We rented that out. And we’re gonna film in Spain. I’m gonna need a lot of freebase cocaine for the flight, my god, but this is about America. It’s important, about outlasting. Gonna run with the f*cking bulls!”

 

“Yeah, Anton ain’t gonna do that sober, I wouldn’t do that sober, Anton.”

 

And Tony poked his head through. “Yeah?”

 

Achban said “Not you, f*ckin’ Anton Beaudelaire.”

 

“Who?” At Beaudelaire, “You? You’re Anton?”

 

Beaudelaire got passed the champagne, from Ivan. Took this big gulp and didn’t look at Tony, paused a second. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

 

“Are you Russian?”

 

Scoffed. “Do I look Russian? My brother’s named Dmitri, so I suppose I got off lightly.”

 

“My name’s Anton! We got the same name!”

 

“And there are a million similarities, coincidences, mistakes made doubly. I don’t place any value on them, only the simple do.”

 

Gave a big f*ck-off smile, nodded. “Absolutely,” Tony said. “Okay.”

 

Looked him in the eyes. “Simpleton.” Right in his face, unsubtle as possible, “f*cking cretin.”

 

Smile faded while he was still nodding. Said “I like movies.”

 

“What movies?” Like an interrogation. “What film did you see last?”

 

“I don’t watch the sci-fi sh*t. Starkweather’s prequels sh*t. But I loved The Mainframe. You see that?”

 

“Was that the last thing you saw? It’s a good film, an incredible allegory. The directors--”

 

“Last thing I saw,” Tony blabbed, “in the cinema? I don’t usually go that often. ‘Cause, y’know, on the streets, you don’t got time to do that. I used to do that, when I was a kid, and I was real happy when I was a kid. Y’know, you go to the movies, y’know, like to-uh, to escape or to uh- to, like, uh--”

 

Achban said “Yeah.”

 

“You see Smut Bag?”

 

Relaxed on the bar. Beaudelaire said “The sex comedy.”

 

“Well, I mean, yeah. I guess.”

 

Frankie yapped “He gets his dick sucked off, don’t he?”

 

“It’s about how a young man,” Beaudelaire said, “in a Nineties context, in a uniquely American context, among both the commodification of masculinity and the travails of adolescence, how he survives in an age without meaning and without something the world has deemed as necessary to his development.”

 

“Yeah, his dick gets ripped off.”

 

“Oho, okay Frankie. Ha ha ha. We laugh at that. And there’s obviously a comedic element to it. I work in an industry where men overvalue the comedic and undervalue the value--”

 

Tony said, “I go to the f*ckin’ movie to escape and to laugh, he gets his dick sucked off by the vaccum.”

 

“I’m coked out of my f*cking mind. Listen,” hand on Tony’s shoulder. Beaudelaire gave this fake smile, “I don’t care how much of a r*tard you are. I mean that. I’ve worked with a lot.”

 

Achban cracked up. “Yeah, he don’t take much a hint.”

 

“I don’t judge you for it. I mean, Frankie introduces me to dumb f*cking punk kids. I wrote a script with one. Are you going to sell me anything?”

 

“You don’t talk to me like that,” Tony said. Looked at Achban. Wasn’t smiling.

 

“But are you?”

 

Frankie said “They ain’t selling.”

 

Beaudelaire took another gulp from the bottle, took his hand off Tony's shoulder. “If you do not have anything I can procure, I would really just appreciate if you left me alone. You do not have anything to say. You’re like Tony.”

 

“I am Tony,” said Tony.

 

“He means Gay Tony,” Frankie cackled. “Nobody gives a sh*t about you.”

 

“Anthony is a blowhard and a junkie,” Beaudelaire spat. “But he watches films. He doesn’t watch tripe. He’s seen things I’ve made. Concrete Grate? A Homeboy Named Roosevelt? You’ve seen the f*cking vaccuum cleaner movie. This is art, personal art. You f*cking cretin.”

 

“Just get a drink, bubby.”

 

Looked at Achban.

 

Nodded.

 

Sidestepped.

 

Got the message.

 

They were doing rails on the bartop. Kirill’s head down, beckoned the others, Frankie slicked it back again.

 

Rails.

 

Rails.

 

“Got an idea for a movie,” Beaudelaire snorted. “Wanna make something that speaks to the zeitgeist.” Went down for it.

 

Frankie said “Anton’s a f*cking genius.”

 

Finger plugging one nostril. “A commentary on American imperialism. The immaturity of an empire.” Snorted, “Hoo! Children that are spies. Children that are spies. They’re in a spy acad--”

 

“We gotta go.”

 

Achban turned.

 

Tony. No drink.

 

Ivan chanting “Dollface, oh, Dollface,” Tony cutting past him.

 

Tony no-face. Tony dull, sallow, weary eyed.

 

Squinted. “You don’t look too good,” Achban said. “No drink?” Smile.

 

“It’s bad.”

 

Smile died. “What?”

 

“Ya’ dad called. It’s urgent.”

 

Pit in the chest. “He didn’t call me.”

 

“He was tryna’. We gotta go. It’s ya’ ma. He- he sounded… vague, and f*ckin’ unspecific, choked up… it’s ya’ ma, it’s your mother.”

 

Dead in the chest. “What?”

 

“I- I--”

 

“I’m confused--”

 

“I think she’s hurt.”

 

Off the bar.

 

Didn’t need to think. Just went for the exit--

 

“Hey!” Grabbed by the arm, Frankie Garone. Tony headed off to the exit. “Stay, where you goin’? Ashpet’, take your time.”

 

Exhaled heavy. The world on Achban’s chest. “I gotta go.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“My ma, she’s all- she’s- I dunno’--”

 

Sniffed, “Tell her I said hi. Hey listen,” hand in his pocket. “You and bobo, you wanna make some connects. Ya’ buddy ova’ there, he wants to meet Roy Zito?”

 

Dismissive, “Yeah yeah yeah yeah--”

 

Handed him a card.

 

 

“Roy’s a man’s man, he’s a good guy. You, you come see me,” Frankie said. “Your buddy too, you want. He wants to meet some connects, tell him he can put some f*ckin’ real dough down, that’ll get him some eyes!” Laughed at that.

 

“Fine.”

 

“I’ll introduce you, we get somethin’ goin’, you can see ‘the Wrist’. Get your f*ckin’ signatures and everythin’. Yeah? Yeah, kid?”

 

Kid. Frankie was 22. 

 

Tony at the lounge door.

 

Achban said thanks.

 

Frankie winked.

 

Turned tail.

 

Dropped the card on the filthy floor as he left.

 

Got his coat. Tony didn’t say a word to the clerk.

 

Out the door. Past the urinals and club kids.

 

Out of Death by Machines.

 

Onto the street. Dead of night. Line still long.

 

Max stopped them.

 

Handed them their stuff. Forty five and a switchblade.

 

No discretion. Eyes saw on the line. No words.

 

Swiped.

 

Walked.

 

Heat seemed to beat down through the clouds, rounding the corner onto the border of Union Drive. Starless sky, soul black.

 

Nobody.

 

Like Achban’s heart was gonna explode.

 

Beating out his chest. Breath ragged.

 

Barely focusing.

 

Coat in one hand. Searching for his phone.

 

“Tony. What’d he say?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“You don’t know?”

 

Crossing over I9. Cell phone out his coat.

 

Flipped the Celltowa open. “I got no missed calls.”

 

“He said he called you.”

 

Tire shop. Car by the abandoned lot.

 

“I’m gonna call him,” Achban said.

 

“Okay.”

 

Stopped.

 

Wiped his brow.

 

Hands shaking.

 

Pressed the--

 

No.

 

Tony slapped the phone out of Achban's hand.

 

Plastic clink on the street. Slid onto the road.

 

“Tony, what the--”

 

Achban got floored.

 

Socked in the jaw.

 

Wheezed.

 

“Big boy, huh!” Circled him. “Big boy, big dick! Big boy, big dick, big boy, big dick--”

 

Knee down on the ground. Hands planted.

 

Drool out Achban’s mouth.

 

Tony wound up the leg.

 

Kicked. Connected. Hit the stomach.

 

Winded Achban. On the asphalt with his arms around his abdomen.

 

Ptoo.

 

Felt spit on the back of his shaved head. Dribbled down to the ear.

 

“You think you can laugh at me?!”

 

“Tony?!”

 

“You faggot, you f*ckin’ yap-yap-yap faggot!”

 

“What the hell?! My mom!”

 

“I lied! You laughed at me! Don’t pretend!”

 

Like Achban’s lungs were crawling out his ears. “Fuuuck you, what--”

 

Grabbed him by the scruff of his neck. Spittle on Achban’s neck, coat thrown, eyes watering. Tony’s hands on the Gaunt polo, fabric tore. Scrambling fingers around the throat. Around his face. Pried his jaw open, Achban’s teeth around fingers.

 

Bit.

 

Tony screamed.

 

Thrust his head into the f*cking car door.

 

Achban clambering confused while the kid doubled back, grabbed him by the ankle. Achban kicked, Achban kicked.

 

Wasn’t Achban he wanted.
 

Tony grabbed the shoe. Pulled it off his feet, Achban spinning on his ass seeing the kid trying to tear it open like he could. He couldn’t.

 

Tossed it toward Union Drive.

 

Thudded and fell and couldn’t tell if it was in the line of tyres.

 

Hands against the little pebbles digging into palms, cornered animal, Achban desperately trying to pull himself up. Foot slipped, fell, back up.

 

Tony came closer.

 

Threw a fist.

 

Hit the door.

 

Yelped.

 

Threw again.

 

Connected.

 

Tony grabbed him by the hips. The blue jeans, grabbed at the belt. “I’m gonna tear ‘em off!”

 

“What?!”

 

“Naked faggot! You’re a queer! Queer!”

 

Sweat made skin slick. Rabid runt, seething, pulled at his legs, Achban kneed and arm flew. Couldn’t even comment, couldn’t speak, couldn’t spit.

 

Tony broke. Broke back, belt loosened, didn’t care, Achban scudded and rose and half tried to slide over the car hood getting away.

 

Bruised himself. Hip hurt, floundered, heard Tony on him.

 

Spires of burnt and broken building sticking out rubble. Grass growing chaotic through dirt. Tripped. Achban tripped and fell face first in loose bricks, dust on torn jeans and Tony laughing.

 

Swimming in spit and used needles.

 

Tony roared. Emasculated pitbull. Headlights flooded and passed and the shadows crept.

 

Tony threw something.

 

Gold clinked on the ground and rolled.

 

One of his rings. It missed.

 

Achban on his feet. Barefoot with the sock torn, blood trailing. Baby cuts.

 

Scrambled.

 

Anton pounced. Running start and flew in like a comet, bricks broke the fall.

 

Chin wet. Sweat and saliva and red-drip a fountain.

 

Hit in the chest.

 

Achban rolled. Rolled Tony onto his spine with Achban on his own, worming out and Tony yelping and seeing his head digging into jagged edges. Stood up, halfway slipped, crack radiating agony up the leg with broken glass or plastic digging in his heel. Hoped it weren’t a needle.

 

Stumbled backwards.

 

Tony on the ground. Shirt was torn.

 

Achban punted him in the side. “I’m gonna kill you!”

 

Spat blood on the ground.

 

Kicked again.

 

Anton wheezed. On his knees, hands planted. Achban circled, spat more blood on the ground, felt at his teeth.

 

Stomped.

 

The air curdled.

 

Tony grabbed at his thumb and collapsed.

 

Achban kicked. At the head.

 

At the head.

 

At the side.

 

At the head.

 

Stomped on his back.

 

Wiped blood away from his mouth. “God!”

 

“I hate you!” Grit teeth.

 

Achban staggered. Staggered away.

 

Through loose brick and loose weeds. Torn chainlink fencing. Eyes squinting at the road and the lights through the dark, through nothing.

 

Heard Tony getting up.

 

Didn’t turn. “Whatever!” Didn’t have much more to say.

 

“Don’t laugh at me.” Weak.

 

Grit in Achban’s lungs. Coughed.

 

Stopped.

 

Adjusted his foot to stop the brick digging in. Side stepped. Side stepped to waist high wall and leaned against it and breathed out, coughed again.

 

Heat beating down.

 

“Don’t laugh at me,” Tony said.

 

Achban wiped his eyes.

 

Bang.

 

The world screamed.

 

Didn’t think. Loudest noise he’d ever heard. Dropped to the ground with his arms over his head, ears covered, fetal position. Rock dug deep into the side didn’t know where or how bad it cut. Knees scraped.

 

Ears ringing.

 

Ears ringing.

 

Eyes closed shut.

 

Heard faint, “Achban! Achban!”

 

Eyes opened.

 

Skinny legs. Pikeys sneakers. Below-the-knee denim shorts, eyes running up to ribcage bone sticking through a singlet. Gaunt kid with dark eyes and a forehead standing high, glasses glint.

 

Abbot Cohen.

 

Masking tape wrapped around the handle of a .38 revolver.

 

Achban blinked.

 

Kid stepped away.

 

Neck craned behind him.

 

Tony on the ground.

 

Rose slow. Rose like he weren’t rising, like the clock was stopped and the world wasn’t moving.

 

Abbot fired again.

 

Bang.

 

Tony’s head jolted. He was not moving.

 

Lights reflected off black pooling out his head. Head split open down the scalp, like his head was torn in half.

 

Bang.

 

Tony’s head jolted.

 

Achban blinked.

 

Stepped forward.

 

Abbot turned. “Are you okay?”

 

Tony was not moving. Switchblade glean off the blood, a thousand miles away.

 

Achban stepped forward.

 

Abbot repeated, “I heard--”

 

Bang.

 

Achban slapped him in the face.

 

Blinked fast, blinked hard, blinked off tears. Achban grabbed him by the forearm, ripped the gun out his hand. Shoebox pistol, years old, tested in a field in South Broker years ago.

 

“I took the train!” Abbot said. It didn’t mean anything.

 

Abbot stepped forward and tried to wrestle the gun back, stopped. Crunch. Had stepped on Tony’s head, slick off his shoe sole.

 

Achban stepped away.

 

Pool of black on the ground.

 

“He was gonna,” Abbot said. “He was gonna.”

 

Stepped away.

 

Made sure nobody was watching.

 

Wound his arm up. Like he was pitching.

 

Three, two, one.

 

Swoosh.

 

The gun flew.

 

It drowned in the darkness.

 

A good distance away. Too far to tell.

 

Grabbed Abbot by the arm and ran.

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

Edited January 20, 2024 by slimeball supreme

[slimeball supreme]

On the Styx

 

It was 2016.

 

Hadn’t clicked until he woke up.

 

It was 2016.

 

Watched videos of the ball dropping in Star Junction. Governor Iorio putting out an emergency order for shelters, was freezing temperature over there. Homeless dying in their sleep on the street.

 

Watched the ball drop.

 

Blinked it off.

 

Drove.

 

They didn’t stop for anything after maybe Jacksonville. Just road. No frills. No sleep.

 

Achban called a few people. Kassian too.

 

Kassian the same guy over, and over, and over. Between Eddie and Vadim and his dealer and some other guys. Wouldn’t say who that outlier was. It was a surprise.

 

Abbot had nobody to call.

 

Car stopped.

 

Jaega County. Suburbs of West Jaega Beach. Off I-95 they’d pulled over past a Grain of Truth and an outlet mall with a million brands, past the hotels they knew they knew they weren’t stopping at onto Mayaca Boulevard.

 

It was snowing in Liberty. Palm trees up here.

 

Mayaca Boulevard was all car dealerships.

 

On Jaega Beach Lakes Boulevard, it looked like parking lots. When they’d stopped by a steakhouse they weren’t gonna eat at, Abbot realized they weren’t parking lots. Realized it when he saw the brand signs, and that they were brand brand signs. 

 

Greenspan. Greenspan Bürgerfahrzeug of West Jaega Beach. Greenspan Fathom. Greenspan Willard, Greenspan Übermacht. Up the street: Grotti of Jaega Beach. Benefactor of Jaega Beach. Enus and Pfister.

 

Psychics and mattresses. Palm trees swinging.

 

It was snowing in Liberty.

 

Achban finished his phonecall. Said he was meeting someone with the guys.

 

Drove back on I-95.

 

Soaked it in and Kaz said “Holy crow.” Whistled while the palm trees swung.

 

They’d asked who that someone was in Lacalor Sands. Passed the thousand-acre stripmalls of Spines Bookstores and Bincos and Burger Shots and Save-a-Cents. Achban didn’t answer, and it was maybe ten minutes until Pozo Roca when he did.

 

Pozo Roca. Zito’s.

 

Hair on Abbot’s back standing up.

 

Got off I-95 for no good reason. Achban couldn’t navigate for sh*t.

 

They’d taken out the Little Feat CD. They’d switched it to V-Rock, just let the advertisements swallow. Achban said it was a friend, Daniil. Name didn’t ring any bells for Abbot.

 

Did for Kassian. “Danya Zhulik?”

 

Abbot, “That his name?”

 

“Yeah. Well, no. No. Zhulik’s his- it’s you know. Like Yasha Noga. His name ain’t Noga.”

 

Squinted. “Nickname?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You could’ve just said nickname.”

 

Rolled his eyes back, “Ha ha f*ck you. He’s a gap tooth, used Banshee motherf*cker. Got a thick brow, looks like a Neanderthal. And he sticks the cigarettes in the gap, like it holds it. He’s a hustler.”

 

“Zhulik,” Achban said. “Means hustler, fraudster, confidence man.” Reluctant.

 

Abbot, “He move to Florida? How many Hove Beach pricks are down here? Émigré army.”

 

“Russians in Lazuli. It’s his scene, it’s our scene, wop scene, Russian scene, Jew scene,” Kaz beamed. “The economy of South Florida, Abbie boy, is based almost entirely on real estate speculation and drug deals. Insurance fraud and bad checks. Hove Beach on a different beach. That’s our thing. Don’t be surprised.”

 

“Okay. You know this neanderthal well?”

 

“He owned a travel agency.”

 

“Where, in the neighborhood? Or Vice?”

 

“No, no no. Near Chinatown, in the city. Rent was an assf*ck, because of course it is. And it’s a travel agency, right down from the Exchange.”

 

“He owned a travel agency? Or owns?”

 

“Owned. Clubs are too many moving parts. There’s big motherf*cking money in travel agencies, he said.”

 

“No there isn’t.”

 

Kaz laughed. “Yeah, no kidding. He can speculate but the man can’t accumulate.”

 

“He flip the property for a pretty penny? Or what?”

 

“No. A regular penny.”

 

“So he’s a moron.”

 

“No,” Achban said.

 

“A lot of nos. We got monkey motherf*cker Russian Jew bastards, scam artist morons,” Abbot sneered, “and they’re the f*cking connect? They’re the big guys down here, Achban? Morons who couldn’t make it in the city, bake their f*cking brains? This is what kept you here?”

 

“He’s not a moron.”

 

Kaz, “I don’t know–”

 

“Oh, you’re talking?”

 

“What?” Didn’t get it.

 

Abbot did. “You got no f*ckin’ right, Achban, you f*cking sherpa.”

 

Got a laugh back. Cruel laugh. “You call me a hypocrite?”

 

“I call you a squire and a f*cking chicken sh*t.” Red light, car jerked. “Watch it.”

 

“Watch what, Abbot?”

 

“Watch these f*cking nuts, you f*cking loser–”

 

“Hey, hey hey!” Kassian.

 

Ticking. Tick-tick-ticking. Indicator or engine or neither or both.

 

Looked to the backseat.

 

Kaz doing puppy eyes.

 

“Sorry,” Abbot muttered.

 

“Can we- can we- c- can we chill? Can we chill?”

 

Miles of curling Florida suburbia and manicured lawns and palm trees. Trimmed hedges and no sidewalks. Chopped up dead grass on the corner and a cleaned up Gauntlet.

 

Abbot sighed.

 

Immigrant landscapers blow-drying garden next to tacky blue Ubermacht next to overgrown lawn with a Dundreary and an ancient Schyster pickup and a GoPostal truck and postman passing by with a package trying not to look at nobody. Abbot was counting birds.

 

Drove.

 

Where were they meeting Danya?

 

By the beach. Drove.

 

Where by the beach? Drove.

 

Got an answer a while past a YouTool and a golf course and the airpark in Bonito Beach. Fort Tequesta. The beach at Fort Tequesta before they as a flock descended upon Vice-Langhorne County.

 

Made a game of spotting the brands and the palm trees and the luxury cars on the highway. South Florida was Brandland. Car dealerships again: Dinka, Ubermacht, Burgerfahrzeug. Sandwiched between a bait and tackle and a Lenny cheesesteak joint.

 

How long were they gonna be in Vice City?

 

Achban scoffed. Did this only occur to you now?

 

Bolt Burger. Burger Shot. Italian restaurants and an O’Deas and an E Grade. “We booked it,” Abbot said. “We didn’t get time to think.”

 

Kaz said “Yeah.” Side by side with a Benefactor and a Penumbra.

 

Car turned the corner. More cafes on the boulevard. Verdi convenience store and a Junque Osmond bank. Seafood grill and a Save-a-Cent.

 

Driver was mum.

 

Abbot repeated, “How long we gonna be in Florida, brother man?”

 

Brazilian wax place and a Pill Pharm after crossing a drawbridge with Achban chewing air.

 

Drilled holes with his eyes into his brother’s neck before Achban replied.

 

Past a tacky Irish pub and a dozen palm trees. “Maybe we head back in March,” Achban said. “We gotta keep things wrapped up, and you’ll be compensated, you guys. Mack, Benny, everyone. They’ll appreciate.”

 

Venice in Florida. Chain hotels and turquoise ocean. White sand and curling canals and tract housing. Could see it all along the road to Fort Tequesta.

 

Car dealerships and yacht clubs.

 

Nobody said anything when Achban replied.

 

Condos and palm trees.

 

Hotels and palm trees.

 

Palm trees and palm trees.

 

Drove.

 

Drove.

 

El Fanal Beach, Fort Tequesta.

 

Shirtless beachcombers and roller skaters in January. Occasional sunbather under slightly overcast skies. Palm trees and glitzy chain resorts. Von Crastenburg and Banner and Celtica and Olive Bush and Viceroy. Drove along Vincapervinca Boulevard and saw the sea, saw the sand, saw the brands.

 

Tourists. Tourists, tourists, tourists. Obey whips, electric Coil Model R. Ocelot Jackals and Albany Presidentes; executive whips. Pfisters and beefed up Canis offroaders; executives off work.

 

Lined jet skis. Lined palm trees. Drove.

 

Liquor store. Docked yachts on a marina. Overhead pedestrian walkway leading to the beach from another Von Crastenburg resort.

 

“Up here,” Achban muttered.

 

There was a riverboat moored near the baby yachts. The Pretty Hottentot, admission tickets and a barbecue. Sign saying they had fishing charters. Achban turned in.

 

There was a man smoking by a Reefer fishing boat named the Sevenfold of Key Roanoke, FL. Achban pointed.

 

White short sleeve turtleneck under an unbuttoned Cuban shirt: gold looping patterns on bowling shirt stripes, white base. White deck shoes, baroque gold Santo Capra swim trunks paired with Santo Capra visor shades. Blond crew cut, neanderthal brow with trimmed facial hair and a gap tooth. Cigarette in there, held tight in the mouth.

 

Achban hit the window button. Window rolled. “Danya!”

 

“That his boat?” Kaz asked.

 

“‘Course not. Daniil!” Arm stuck out the window, slapping the door. “Мы здесь, ублюдок!”

 

Neanderthal lifted the shades up a little. Mole on the right side of his mouth, scar line on the left digging from the upper lip to the nasolabial fold. Stuck his tongue out a moment, “Убей себя.”

 

Kassian, “Не унывай, угрюмый. How’re you doing, Danya?”

 

“Kassian.” Voice was more like a ribbit. “Achban. Car, okay, new car? Okay.”

 

Achban, “My brother’s.” Thumbed.

 

Kept the shades up. Danya squinted, pulled the cigarette out. “Oh, yeah. How are you doing, big man?”

 

Got a nod back. “Yeah,” Abbot said.

 

Yelp from the back, Kassian, “I f*cked my arm up.” Showed the cast off through the window, “I ain’t gonna be takin’ this off for a f*ckin’ while, huh. Какие-то китайские педики. Kung fu losers, kung fu losers.”

 

Licked at the lip cut and nodded, dropped the shades. “That what happened, or what you tell me happened?”

 

“Half in half,” voice jittered a little. “Here on business. Old friends. New f*ckin’- f*ckin’ sun, sun in January, like it’s the southern hemisphere. Like I’m out in f*ckin’ Cuba a’ some sh*t. You got the boats, the waves.”

 

“The brands,” Abbot muttered.

 

“Like the buildings is made outta blow ‘n they’re gonna tip right over on a heavy breeze, man, like the levies is gonna burst. When the hurricanes,” Kaz pointed with a thumb and a pinky, “When Shiloh came, that f*cked up us, you catch any backwash? You get on the marina you can go to Puerto Rico, wait the storm out.”

 

“That’s right. Shiloh was here,” Danya said, “We was getting heavy winds over here, Kazy, twenty foot waves, it was crazy.”

 

“Wow, sh*t.”

 

“Yeah, if I get on my boat, I’d a drowned, bratan, but that was three years- sh*t, four years now, I didn’t have boat then.”

 

“You don’t,” Achban said.

 

“What?” Couldn’t see his eyes by the shades. “No, I- no, you been--”

 

“You don’t have a boat, Daniil.”

 

Beat.

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

“Daniil.” Said it like a slap. “You don’t got a boat.”

 

And Danya stuck his tongue up under his lip.

 

Sighed.

 

“Okay, Achbanka, I don’t got a boat.”

 

Achban smiled, but he said it serious: “Don’t even pretend. Don’t embarrass us.”

 

Long silence.

 

Kaz barely hiding a grin.

 

“Are me following you,” Danya said, “or are you following me?”

 

“I’ll follow,” Achban nodded. Rubbed his forearm, “The Baller’s got thirty racks on a Cavalcade, makes a better impression. Newer model.”

 

“Okay. How’s Liberty, friends?”

 

“I’ll back out the lot,” Achban began. “City’s the city.”

 

“Yeah?” Clearly didn’t know what that meant.

 

Achban hit the window switch.

 

Rolled up. Backed out.

 

Kaz coughed. Coughed turned to laugh, like something he had to hold around the intestines. Spewed out, “Jesus f*cking Christ!”

 

“He’s good people,” Achban said. Eyes behind, Kaz ducking out of view.

 

“Santo Capra up the f*cking ass. He used to be the Khabarovsk Killer, what the hell happened? Солнце Флориды обожгло ему мозг, Ackie?”

 

“He hasn’t changed.”

 

“Half as f*cking tacky when he drove the Banshee. Abbot, when he was at the door at Perestroika, he was a bouncer, he’d walk up and he’d go,” put the faux-Russian accent on, “hey, you, give me ten dollar right f*ck now!”

 

Abbot laughed. “Him? I mean, he looks like a gorilla, but he wilted like a flower, man.”

 

Achban snarled, “Gossip like little f*cking school boys. He’d snap you in half. Done more sh*t than either of you. Shut your f*cking mouths.”

 

“Chill out.”

 

“You’d wilt.”

 

“Lied all f*cking cool about his boat–”

 

“Abbot,” Kaz said. “Just let’s- let’s just zip.”

 

Shrugged.

 

U-turned to face the road. Idled in the road waiting for Danya.

 

Danya passed.

 

Danya Zhulik driving a honey-yellow Gallivanter - 2011 Huntley Bastille, no regular Huntley or Sport marquee - whipped the Baller out to the right of the Cavalcade. Waited a moment before hitting the boulevard for a utility van to pass by before leading.

 

Right by the Gallivanter logo as he led. Clear as day.

 

 

Abbot scoffed.

 

“What?” Achban hissed.

 

“Is this guy f*cking retarded?” Pointed at the bumper sticker, “He’s a f*cking Lyle guy!”

 

“Yeah. So?”

 

“So? Some moron Russian, Pegassi paint SUV, Lyle voter.”

 

“He had an apartment at Cleethorpes Tower, dopey, what, you don’t like him?”

 

“Like who? Lyle Cleethorpes?”

 

“Everybody in Hove Beach votes Republican.”

 

“I don’t give a sh*t about politics–”

 

Kassian laughed, “Then what’s all this, Abbot?”

 

“You too?”

 

“Yeah,” Achban said, “he hates gays, Kassian, it ain’t gonna benefit you.”

 

“Screw you,” Kaz rubbed his nose, “He’s not gonna win anyway. So let him have it. Pipe dream LIAR hat nonsense. And then the Dem’ll win it anyway, but I don’t wanna make this political. My dad was a Lyle guy. I- I mean, I’m tired of politics.”

 

Abbot, “It’ll be Lynette.”

 

“Lyle and Lynette. I don’t get politics. I don’t get what anyone gives a f*ck about any sh*t for. Lyle’s a clown. But dad liked him anyways.”

 

“Rest his soul,” Achban muttered.

 

“What?”

 

“Rest his soul.”

 

“Oh, yeah. Sorry. Yeah. But yeah. Just- I mean, I don’t know no policies, per says. But I mean, I don’t know. The small loan of a million dollars thing, that was retarded. There’s that guy Darwin.”

 

“The socialist?”

 

“My dad hated him.”

 

“Rahim hated him,” Abbot said. “The Darwin Dudes thing and the socialism and all of that sh*t, he was uh- a- a- I don’t care. I just- Lyle’s a racist, isn’t he?”

 

“Against illegal immigrants,” Achban said.

 

“Yeah, sure.”

 

“If they came over legal, it’d be no problem. But they don’t. That’s the issue, Abbot. We came over legal as sh*t. Dad had to memorize, f*ckin’, the Communist Manifesto, he had to worship Stalin, all that sh*t. People want that over here, f*ck ‘em, they’re f*cking stupid.”

 

“Sure.”

 

“I don’t care about politics either, but Mack likes Lyle too, he knows him personally. I almost met the guy once. Mack’s got the LIAR hat, he’s in the LifeInvader groups.”

 

“I bumped into one of those guys on the subway. With the hat. Real dickhead.”

 

“What’s with you?”

 

“What, Achban?”

 

“What, you going to school, that put all kinds of retard liberal f*cking sh*t in your head? Is that what they did at your office, Marxist sh*t?”

 

“I worked for a living.”

 

“So you aren’t a communist, I know that,” shot a laugh back at Kassian. Kaz laughed back awkward. Achban went on, “let’s get f*cking real a minute, Abbie, I don’t see no downsides to a businessman taking the reigns. We’re all businessmen. More or less.”

 

“He’s racist, Achban.”

 

“Point to one racist thing he’s ever said? Seriously. You can’t.”

 

“I can point to a few you said.”

 

“What are you, a f*cking child? You get offended? Get real. It’s just words, sticks and stones, ma raised you better than that. Don’t break no butterflies on wheels.”

 

“Yeah, Abbie, just chill out. It’s just jokes.”

 

They’d crossed a bridge over the Coontie River. Cruiseliner to the south, built up skyline of yachts and hotels and palm trees to their right flowing up north. Village of a couple dozen super yachts behind them and the yellow Gallivanter up ahead: Lyle sticker, Von Crastenburg logo, Fort Tequesta’s excuse for skyscrapers off in the distance.

 

Onto the airport, back onto highway. Headed to the airport near Port Quagmire. Onto Vinewood, Florida.

 

Looked behind from the passenger seat at Kassian in the back.

 

Shot a glare.

 

Kaz didn’t shoot one back. Sheepish little smile, eased his free hand.

 

Drove.

 

***

 

 

Community shuttle of old folks and empty seats while Benefactors rolled past. Curled off the causeway past the palm trees and the big blue sign.

 

Achban with another Debonaire through pursed lips while smoke blew out the open window.

 

Condos loomed.

 

“You know what it should be?” Kaz with this f*ck off Bippy Dog grin, “Should be Moscow-by-the-Sea, is what the f*ck it should be.”

 

“Little Odessa?”

 

“Nah, Abbie.”

 

“Nah?”

 

“Nah nah nah, sh*t’s a different beast.”

 

Achban said “Yeah.”

 

Two white Benefactors rolled past as the Gallivanter kept on. Looked to the right, was palm trees and groomed grass. Looked to the left, was elevated highway and condominiums, palm trees and trimmed hedges.

 

Down Soosay Avenue. Strip mall zipped past. Construction when the elevated highway sloped back onto the road. Condos never stopped.

 

Two Enus whips in the dentist parking lot, Pfister Design Tower under construction. “All the Russians live in the condos,” Kaz said.

 

Achban, “Mack don’t. Got a house a couple blocks down. Backyard’s up on the beach.”

 

“Does Danya?”

 

“Sure, yeah.”

 

“Which?”

 

“The Cleethorpes Immenso.”

 

Abbot laughed, “No sh*t. Ain’t that conflict of interest? Or he vote for Lyle ‘cause he don’t want an eviction?”

 

“He’s a smart f*ck, you give him credit.”

 

Benefactor D-Wagon kitted out military style, blacked out windows and off-road rims. Slowed into the Verdi parking lot near the discount pharmacy and the Globe Oil station.

 

Arabians on horseback outside a chintzy motel.

 

Lazuli Coast was Florida’s Hove Beach. It was not Hove Beach. Skyscraper condos blotting out the view of the ocean, all centered on Soosay. Nothing like Mohawk. Endless luxury cars, endless condos. Endless imported palm trees and endless brands. No small business, unless they did pool supply or home theater installation. 

 

Curved into another strip mall past a waiting Bobcat cash truck outside an O’Deas. Past a parked Gauntlet convertible, guys in blue-and-yellow uniforms moving cash from a C&BT.

 

Across the street from Cleethorpes Immenso. A dozen Russian restaurants in the strip mall. 

 

This was the enclave. This was the cultural center. Obeys and Emperors parked outside a deli called Rasputin. Rasputin next to a juice bar and a Kilimanjaro outlet.

 

Burger Shot. Karin. Realty. Realty, realty, hair salon, Russian deli, tanning salon, Russian bookstore, home insurance.

 

“Up there.”

 

Next to a Lombank and a nail salon. A few empty spaces. A Schyster Morton, looking hideous as per. Retro tacky dogsh*t. Gallivanter pulled up a few spaces down.

 

Achban pulled up next to it.

 

Reserved parking for proprietor. Lampadati KA. Cherry red, hexa headlight convertible with a brick wall rear.

 

“That’s Mack’s car?”

 

“Yeah, Abbot.” Achban getting bored of answering f*cking questions.

 

Car door opened, “What the f*ck is that?”

 

Kaz, “It’s like a f*ckin’ Italian Blista Compact. Like–”

 

“No.” Stopped them both.

 

Stood as Danya passed for the door.

 

Abbot said “What?”

 

“You,” slowly, “do not disrespect him. Nobody does. That’s it.”

 

“Are you kidding me?”

 

“That’s it. He’s what matters. You just shut your f*cking mouth. You keep with the wisecracks, I’ll f*cking knock you one. And I ain’t indemnifying sh*t.”

 

“What is he, papa?” Kaz smiled.

 

Achban looked at Kaz.

 

Kaz stopped smiling.

 

Danya Zhulik waited outside.

 

Achban led.

 

They followed.

 

FSN Printworks.

 

Dust. Nobody f*cking cleaned. Lungs smoked out like a house fire. Tooth-chatter ticka tick tick of printers going, nobody using. Birthday cards and copy machines. Phone chargers by the cash register with a monitor in employee face. Employee craned neck, scrawny kid in a polo with the nametag Heriberto. Caesar cut.

 

Was them three, Heriberto, and a fifth. Latina in the same uniform polo picking up dead cockroaches, dead flies, stuffing them in a zip baggie. Idalmis, tag said. She looked up and chirped “¡No te preocupes, está en su oficina!”

 

“Su auto está afuera,” Danya shot back. “Ocúpate de tus propios asuntos.”

 

“Hay muchas de estas cosas.”

 

“¿A quién le importa un carajo? Puta. ¿Por qué te pagan?”

 

Office door behind them. Sticker.

 

 

Didn’t even comment this time. Just entered.

 

Office was clean. Way too big. Probably took up more space than the actual store, took up more space than any single man office had any right to be. Two bookshelves and inoffensive paintings straight out a hotel lobby. Framed pictures and halogen lights.

 

Maksim Firsov, the big makher.

 

Buttermilk button-up buttoned down to the chest. Middle-aged stretched skin, ruddy as hell, body hair speckling up to the neck before cutting out sharp. Shaver. Sunken eyes and pockmarks, sharp chin and widow’s peak of sandy hair. Sleeves rolled up, iced out gold bracelet and double-iced out Gaulle wristwatch: Roman numerals, blue clock hands, squared.

 

Watch cost more than Abbot’s life.

 

Ear-to-ear smile on the old makher’s face. “You die?”

 

Achban said “No.” Half-smiling himself.

 

“You didn’t die in Liberty City? It didn’t kill you?”

 

“No, Mack. It didn’t.”

 

Kissed Achban on the cheek, kissed him again. Hugged him tight. “Тупой, плаксивый ублюдок.” Arms let go, beamed at the Russian in Santo Capra. “Даня, стонала мне эта сучка весь день. На месяц! Потому что он не хотел уезжать из города.”

 

“Он сосет все члены в Вайс-Сити,” Kaz laughed. “Но он не знает, где найти педиков в Либерти.”

 

Abbot didn’t know what the f*ck was going on.

 

Watch rattled when Maksim drew Achban close again. “He speaks Russian?”

 

“He didn’t know you would,” Achban explained. “Abbot doesn’t. So he just assumed you wouldn’t neither.”

 

“My condolences to your father, Kassian.” Clasped his hands, watch kept rattling. “I knew Teddy, he was a good man.”

 

Got a shrug back. “sh*t happens.”

 

Daniil, “Hove Beach is always like this.”

 

Got cold in the room.

 

Cold. “Sure,” Mack said. “sh*t happens.”

 

Achban nodded. Lip was a straight line.

 

Danya broke it. “You wanted to talk us both in same room? Я помню, как мне сказали по телефону.”

 

Maksim to Achban, “Ничего страшного, если они слышат?”

 

Kaz, “Hear what?”

 

“Yeah, no,” Achban muttered. “Yeah, they can. Abbot’s got, uh…” thought a second, “Он слышал, так сказать, очень важные вещи. You got double-C level clearance. That still hasn’t changed, says the Universe.”

 

Got a laugh from Kassian. ‘Says the Universe’, muttered that under his breath.

 

“Do you have to leave the room?” Maksim asked.

 

Kaz stopped laughing.

 

Achban, “Беня сказал, что может слышать, пока находится здесь. Пока не будет принято решение.”

 

Maksim the Makher sniffed. “I told you on the phone what’s happened with the degenerates.”

 

“Yeah?” Danya, not privy.

 

Looked at Abbot real slow before continuing, “Norm’s Frenchman. Him and his friends in Tampa. Bunch of f*cking roister-doisters. You know him, Abbot?”

 

“No.”

 

“You don’t need to.” Scratched his forehead, could see skin flecks spin through refracting sunlight. “It doesn’t look like he’s going to matter. The woman. The other woman. Filing a lawsuit against Weston. She talked to people. And gave a very uncharitable recounting of happenstance that behoves him to avoid legal action.”

 

Danya nodding. Achban nodding.

 

Abbot couldn’t follow sh*t. “Weston?”

 

Maksim squinted.

 

“Friend,” Danya said.

 

Blink. “I don’t know who that is.”

 

If Abbot didn’t know, Kaz really didn’t know. Whole conversation his eyes were dipping: lighting up, sheepishly glazing over. 

 

Room was cold.

 

“How about this,” Maksim began. “You can stay here, if you want. We’re going to keep talking about this. Have our friends informed you as to the situation developing in regards to Viceport?”

 

Abbot said “Yes. I talked to Roy Zito, I talked to Benny, some people at the bath house, and I was at the thing in East Hook Achban was present at. I also took care of an issue, maybe a couple. I think everyone in the room knows that already. About impending legal issues, and about what I did.” Was leaning into the vagueness.

 

Maksim’s lips curled, folded. “Okay. We are going to have several discussions. Over the coming days. Rami has already been sent, he’s over in The Sabals right now. It is understood you are familiar with- uh- yes, uh, elements. But not many elements related to here. So there’s going to be introductions, and there is going to be discussions.”

 

Kaz, “I know about the indictments, too. And Roy Zito.”

 

Nodded. Nodded. Nodded. “I know,” he said. “Your clearance level, not as high. So you’re going to be wise to some, not all. That’s fine. Even I’m not. You might have to sit out, but it’s understood you’re Abbot’s Loblolly boy.”

 

“Yeah, yeah. I’m Abbot’s boy Friday or some stupid f*cking bullsh*t like that.” Smirked, “Я должен подождать и посмотреть, как вас, ребята, трахают. Пейте кофе, пока вы, ребята, убираете сперму.”

 

Danya laughed.

 

Maksim didn’t. “We’re going to discuss things, Daniil and Achban and I, about things you and Abbot here may not understand. That’s fine. You’re free to leave. Get settled into wherever you are accommodated. Tomorrow you will meet some more of our people at the restaurant, Tashkent. Amir, Ilya, Ibroxim. Okay?”

 

“Okay,” Abbot said.

 

“Then the day after, we have a meeting. Abbot, you’ll be needed. Achban and Danya will brief you on details you may not understand.” Looked to Achban, “Important people, you remember Slim?”

 

Achban, “Очевидно, да. Я проверил дюжину его женщин. Убедился, что они хорошо работают. Вы это уже знаете. Кто будет на встрече? Джордж?”

 

“Slim, George. Some of Devin’s people, some of Norman’s.” Back to Abbot, “Coming weeks there’s going to be a lot of meetings. A lot of things to straighten out. Devin’s under litigation from stupid f*cking bitch, this thing with the Preacher. Mauskopf, Zito, Saravaisky. Everyone needs messes cleaned.”

 

“I’m your f*ckin’ vassal, my liege.”

 

Little chuckle. “You can stay, or you can go. You won’t miss anything.”

 

Let it simmer, let it sink in.

 

Abbot feigned a bow. “We’ll head out, then.”

 

Danya, “Приятно было познакомиться, Abbot Cohen.”

 

“До завтра,” Maksim smiled.

 

Awkward goodbyes. Kaz waving, saying nothing. Achban saying nothing, never waving.

 

Eyes followed them as the left, as the door shut.

 

Talking recommenced. All in Russian, all muffled.

 

Idalmis was now cleaning the monitor with wet wipes. Heriberto out front smoking.

 

“What’d Achban work out for us out here in terms of accommodation?”

 

Abbot stood there. “Nothing.”

 

“Whaddya- what?”

 

“Achban’s got a real habit of makin’ you do some sh*t and hoof it after the fact. Dick in my f*cking hand.”

 

“So we got no- what? We got nothing?”

 

Shrugged.

 

***

 

“Can we stay with your mom?”

 

“No.”

 

Had to get a QuiComo.

 

Allman Brothers on VRock before Kaz hard switched back to jazz. Cannonball Adderley. Allman Brothers was Achban’s thing. App on the phone, crossed Balear Bay arguing before stopping at a mall parking lot in North Vice.

 

Kaz on the hood. Music playing. Parked between a Binco and Burger Shot.

 

“96 a day for- for what? For 2 months?”

 

“Probably, yeah. Unless you got somebody around here we can crash with, baby.”

 

“That’s- what, 2.8k for 30 days?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“That’s more than my f*cking rent. And that’s cheap?”

 

“On Vice Beach, yeah. I can’t find sh*t below 100, below 90. That’s two- f*cking wow, that’s 200 a night on Ocean Drive.”

 

“What about North Vice? Who gives a sh*t about Vice Beach, we gotta be close.”

 

“Hold on.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, hold the f*ck on. Did we ask?”

 

“Ask what? Eighty two.”

 

“Eighty two? A night?”

 

“Ask what?”

 

“Abbot. Ask- ask where the f*ck we’d stay to Achban?”

 

“No.”

 

“You didn’t discuss something between you?”

 

“I told you, no.”

 

“Where the f*ck is the rental? Is it bath salts central? Toilet Cleaner huffing sh*t? To pay livable currency we gotta live near the f*ckin’ rednecks and the f*ckin’ alligators, is that what’s happening?”

 

“I got decent in Vice Shores but it’s more- have you called any of your friends?”

 

“Tomorrow we’re doing the thing.”

 

“What thing?”

 

“Is Vice Shores and Vice Beach the same thing, Abbie?”

 

“I’m saying what’s the thing?”

 

“We’re offloading the sh*t. You know. The sh*t.”

 

The fentanyl. “Okay. Vice Shores is like, ten or fifteen minutes from Lazuli? The closer you get to Vice Beach the more money you gotta burn.”

 

“The restaurant’s in Lazuli. Mack is in Lazuli. Anywhere closer?”

 

“The closer you get to Lazuli, the more expensive it f*cking gets.”

 

“Look. Okay. What about anything under, uh, seventy a day. That’s my price range.”

 

Seventy a day.

 

$63 in Little Haiti.

 

No days booked. One bedroom, one bathroom, 300 square feet. No smoking, no pets, no parties.

 

Extenuating circumstances - they needed board now, couldn’t book. Contact option next to their details.

 

 

Clicked.

 

Called.

 

She was okay.

 

Hung up.

 

Drove.

 

“They’re French,” Abbot spat. Car burning rubber out the parking lot onto Bayshore Boulevard, past a pizza place with an American flag out the window and a YouTool garden center.

 

“Like, Quebec?” Kaz digging through his teeth with his free hand. Palm trees swaying and office space for lease.

 

“No, uh, they’re from Belgium.”

 

“That’s not f*cking French!”

 

“Look- they said they can work something out. And- and they’re- they’re somewhere, they’re, uh…”

 

“Why did you say that Belgium was France? Dumbass.”

 

“Shut up. They’re in Rhynestone.”

 

“See, you said French, I thought Quebec. A lot of f*cking Quebecs and Italians in Florida, man, in everywhere, man. Why did you say they were French?”

 

“I’m under a lot of stress, here.”

 

“They’re Belgian.”

 

“I f*cking know!” Almost laughed at it, then actually laughed at it. 24/7 and another O’Deas, empty lot and palm trees. “They’re at some f*cking cafe, babe, it’s across the street from, like, some graffiti wall thing.”

 

“Like, ghetto?”

 

“No, like hipster. Like Hedgebury, like Rahim.”

 

Squinted. “Oh, f*cking great.”

 

“We are begging, so it’s not like we can choose.”

 

“So is the apartment or house–”

 

“Unit in the thing.”

 

“Okay. Is that–” jazz. Jazz ringtone out Kassian’s phone. “Goddamn it. I gotta take this.”

 

“Yeah, okay.”

 

The cultural wasteland stretched on a thousand miles until the end of Balear Bay, until the Keys. For now, along Bayshore, it was tedium, it was babble in the ears and dribbled out tract housing brand-brand-brandland.

 

Ammunation. Paper Clips. Verdi and Save-a-Cent, public pool by the country club on Vice Shores until the Pill Pharm and Pizza Stack curving off by the Declasse dealership.

 

Strip of palm trees and strip malls and motels.

 

Kaz hung up. On the phone for too long while the world melted together. Bank of Liberty, palm trees, Verdi, palm trees, US Marines recruiting station, palm trees. Was getting city-city now with the white gleaming condo towers and sans serif real estate billboards.

 

Ambulance rolled by. Payday loans across the street from a Bean Machine. “The guy,” Kaz said.

 

“What?”

 

“Who’s the Frenchman?”

 

“It’s a woman.”

 

“Goody. Don’t speak to a lot of those.”

 

“Whatever. You wanna see the place?”

 

“Yeah, yea’- my guy on the phone, with the fentanyl, he’s got the thing. He wants us up now. Wants the four hundred pills. And we got the four hundred pills.”

 

“Okay. Now?” Abbot passed over his phone, Kaz stared. “All of it?”

 

Kaz stared.

 

Turned left onto 29th.

 

“Babe?”

 

“Am I gonna catch f*cking Zika here?”

 

“Oh, ha ha ha. Funny funny jerkoff, give me my phone.”

 

Grinned. “It’s okay.”

 

“It’s cheap.”

 

“Look,” Kaz passed the phone back. “The guy. Fenty Freddy–”

 

“That his name?”

 

“No. It’s Sicillie.”

 

“Dope. Fine. He want us over now?”

 

“Yeah, shortly. It’s not a long drive, though, it’d only be like- like, twenty minutes. They’re giving you the keys here, right?”

 

“Sure, yeah, babe.”

 

“They’re in Iste-Lasti, literally, like, a straight shot up I-95.” Big empty lot about three skyscrapers big of concrete wasteland. Up ahead, teal building, abandoned auto repair - beautiful graffiti lining the walls. Not graffiti, street art: murals and cartoon characters and big fruity skulls.

 

Lifted Sandking truck up to the side rolling coal, giant off-road f*cking tyres, turned the other way without signalling. Blasted soot all over a pear green Annis Poly. Little boxy subcompact honked the horn.

 

Little dick lifted truck honked back. Kassian laughed.

 

Hedgebury-by-the-Sea. Wasn’t keen on another hour going back and forth.

 

Thought.

 

“They got smack?”

 

“Yeah,” Kaz said. “Re-up.” 

 

Land of the gentrified in Rhynestone - used to be Little San Juan. Now was Arts District, now was empty lots under development and street art. Hip bars and initials, scribble-scrabble American flag mural. Spray painted website addresses, acting studios.

 

Mural of a black boy with open hands. Dancing colors and wildstyle letters. Biggie Smalls and a goat with three eyes.

 

Outdoor street art museum on the same block as the cafe, gallery called MuRhynestone. Lin Hoefle work of flying bubbles and monsters mashing ugly teeth, trimmed lawn and colored chairs. Red and yellow work of the Dalai Lama next to Mao. 

 

Cafe itself was the plainest on the block - Saturnino’s Ristorante. Neighbors with an outdoor gallery and a million flashy hipster bars. Polka dot paint on the children’s play center across the road.

 

Saturnino’s was the only place with a serif sign.

 

Could see blonde curls through the window.

 

Parked up. Space behind a black Bollokan Hideo with the evil eye headlights, painted grille and chromed edges.

 

Told Kaz to wait.

 

Chatter-chatter. Barroom blitz of patrons: tourists in cargo shorts, hip types in chino shorts. Eyes surveyed, blonde curls, blonde curls.

 

The goddamn rigamaroo of it all. Wanted to scream.

 

Blonde curls. Stocky middle-aged woman with blonde curls, spectacles. Opposite a plate, half-eaten, empty seat.

 

Shoulder tapped.

 

“Oh?”

 

“Oh,” Abbot said. “Uh, yeah, uh, Isabelle? Yeah. We, uh, we spoke–”

 

“Oh! Abbot with one T?”

 

“Yep, uh, yeah, uh, Abbot with one T, yeah.”

 

Warbly voice, French accent. Woman spoke through the cheeks. “Like a clergyman?”

 

“I’m Jewish.”

 

“Oh, okay.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Good!”

 

“I guess.”

 

“Sure, yeah.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Isabelle said “Hold on!” Dipped her hands to the side, tiny leather purse. Pulled out keys. “Here.”

 

Abbot paused. “You carry them around?”

 

“In my car.”

 

“The Hideo?”

 

“The what?”

 

“Hideo. Outside. I parked behind a Hideo.”

 

“No.”

 

“Oh, okay.”

 

“I dri–”

 

“I drive a Cavalcade.”

 

“Oh, that’s good.”

 

“Yeah.” 

 

“Okay.”

 

“We, uh-” grabbed the keys, “we don’t need to work anything out? Since it’s your place, you know, I mean what times–”

 

“It’s fine.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“I own a couple dozen all over the place, yeah?”

 

“That’s good.”

 

“Nobody go to this one, the Little Haiti one, not so good for people. But cheap.”

 

“That’s good. That it’s cheap.”

 

“Yeah. It’s clean. Nobody lives there.”

 

“That’s good. All to ourselves, yeah.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“So, uh, we can, uh, we can organize- I sort of need an indefinite, uh, just 63 a day?”

 

“Yeah,” she said. “For two months you said? Okay, it’s good.”

 

“Okay. Good.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Abbot left before the husband came back.

 

Car door shut.

 

“That was fast,” Kaz picking teeth, head craned through the gap between seats while the radio blared tape. Yusef Lateef. “You got the keys?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“No bullsh*t? Or anything?”

 

“Aside from Zika, baby, sure.”

 

Chuckled.

 

Drove.

 

***

 

Drove.

 

Palm trees and brands all the way up I-95. Sun bleached concrete and cyan painted overpass undersides. Sabals while the spaghetti junctions merged and the Ammunation billboards singing with Pets Overnight.

 

Death every time you looked down at the real roads. Cracked up pastel stucco cubes. Faded paint and homeless, abandoned shopping carts and grime. Burger Shot, injury law firm advertisements, Bolt Burger and cheap fireworks and ProLaps.

 

They didn’t speak. Just let the jazz play. Fishing supply, oil change on demand, crossed a canal past Vice Shores again waiting for tolls that never came. Pfister coupe ahead and a dozen foreclosures on every block.

 

Turned off onto 135th Street. 

 

Grass overgrew the sidewalks. Custom decal SUVs, empty lots with lake-wide foot-deep puddles. Easy pawn, Save-a-Cent, Xero Oil.

 

“Lotta empty lots.” Kassian idle, scenery staring.

 

Big empty lots of nothing. Land weren’t a luxury. Chain-link fences and development signs. 

 

Gold Canis jeep with blacked out windows. Cheap fried seafood, empty lot with a sad abandoned building in cracking mellow yellow plastered with torn up concert posters.

 

Iste-Lasti beckoned turning onto Iste-Lasti Boulevard - faux-Middle Eastern fontwork with a LCD TV screen playing insurance ads smack bang in the middle. Stucco and chalk.

 

 

Empty parking lot right ahead of overgrown grass and dust, abandoned fast food place with boarded up windows. Plastic net barrier falling apart. Mural of blue skies, mural of a Persian skyline of ornate towers, billboard yelling personal injury lawyers.

 

Tape had stopped. VRock.

 

Fourteen junkies too weak to work

One sells diamonds for what they're worth

Down on pain street, disappointment lurks

 

Dilapidated housing with chain link fences, grayed roads with burnout tyre marks. Palm trees. Palm trees. Mission style corner stores with pastel paint, falling apart. Homes painted eye-popper colors: candy red and magenta. Souped up Annis Euros with a carbon hood, modded spoiler. Up ahead, two more Schyster Mortons, one so f*cked up from a car crash it barely had a rear.

 

Tax prep and taqueria. Mormon church with boarded up windows.

 

Past the train tracks.

 

All day presidents look out windows

All night sentries watch the moonglow

All are waiting till the time is right

 

Kitsch and ruin. Neo-Moorist tourist nonsense in a city of mirages. Like a Vinewood backlot.

 

Palm trees past a community development corporation styled like an Arabian palace. Domes and spires. Another Morton. Black boy on a bicycle past three homeless, past a sign spinner for a thrift store with a superhero shirt.

 

“Baby?” Abandoned fried turkey joint with FAMOUS faded out on the white.

 

Kassian slow.

 

'Cause you know how time fades away

Time fades away

You know how time fades away

 

“Kaz, baby.”

 

“Oh, yeah?”

 

Moorish arch. Christian fellowship. “How you know these guys?” Stucco and zellij tilework on parking lot borders.

 

“Mutual friend.” PMP 600 dusted out by a bus stop. “I know a lot of guys- like, guys from the neighborhood, guys who come down here.”

 

“Hove Beach?”

 

“Yeah. He’s Russian. Knows people.”

 

“Russian like Danya?”

 

“No. No, not that scene. Well- actually, no. No, there’s some pull and tug, y’know, but he’s entrepreneurial, he don’t kick up to nobody. He’s more Jewish than he is that.”

 

“I’d know this guy? He our age, or he like Eddie and Vadim? Because I remember, what was his name, Tony’s friend. I remember Tony. But uh… Limpy, I think. Guys who went to Booth High.”

 

“Nah, he’s younger than you. When you were a freshman he was in middle school, that type of thing. Ze’ev. He used to- we talk on LifeInvader, pretty regularly.”

 

“About drug dealing and f*ckin’ murder and f*ckin–”

 

“This ain’t funny to laugh at. We’re clever. Cigars, though, sometimes.”

 

“Fine. What’s he into, Ze’ev? Cigars?”

 

“A lot of fingers, all kinds of pots. Smart guy. And he knows some people, and he knows me and he knows Vadim. We’re the guys up north,” pointed at the roof. “And he’s the guy down south. Vadim clued me into the greyhound thing, but you know.”

 

“So he lives here.”

 

“No! No Russians here. These guys are black, all these guys. You see any crackers on the street? This ain’t cracker country.”

 

At the end of Iste-Lasti Boulevard was Alhambra Boulevard. Two lanes, separated by a median of hedges and dancing palms. At the end of Iste-Lasti was Iste-Lasti City Hall. Abandoned. White and faded pink, Moorish arch entrance, domes and spires. Palatial kitsch. Overgrown filth. Weeds and creeper vines curling around the chain-link with GET OUT plastered up front.

 

Turned right on Alhambra. Piled up roadwork and detritus on the sides.

 

Airplane flew overhead.

 

Turned off Gazma Avenue when he realized they’d stopped paving sidewalks. Only sidewalks in the town center. Corner of the block had a mechanic, had a dozen cars out on gravel and dead grass. Shelter of the carport masking a pretty clean Benefactor from the Eighties, saddle brown Bobcat truck, fifty-something man with dreadlocks kneeling by the wheels.

 

1001 Wajah Street. Sicillie’s place, Kaz said. Ugly weeds crawling out in a patchwork through exposed dirt and filth. Car stopped, had to park on the grass by the chain link fence. White dirt. Parked Rancher pick-up with the paint worn off so bad it looked like a dalmatian, polka-dot black and white from neglect.

 

Reached into the back for the fent. Pulled out the garbage bag, pulled out the baggie. Four hundred pills. Poured half the baggie back into the garbage bag and left it on the floor of the Cavalcade. Two hundred pills.

 

No Trespassing - Beware of Dog. Sleeping black cocker spaniel, floppy ears, stirred a little and went back to snoozing when the gate opened.

 

Kaz scritched the ear.

 

“Yeah?” Guy on a wooden stool. Backwards Mambas cap, sweat shorts and a graphic tee. Black guy.

 

Music in the backyard.

 

“It’s Kazy? The kike,” Kassian said. “I got the Chinese food.”

 

Only get the pussy, f*ck a name

Bitches never really have a face unless she suckin’ on your dick

Puttin’ jizz in the food chain

 

Stoolboy stood up, nodded, bleated “Chinese food, Chinese food. Lo mein and sh*t?”

 

Laughed, “I got the duck sauce.”

 

Haha. Led ‘em around the back.

 

Blow up the pussy like Hussein

Bitch look at me crazy like, who sane?

Got fire, designer, I got the lighter, igniter

As I’m burnin’ the back of the Mary Jane

 

Untrimmed weeds and broken potted plants. Wooden panel lying on the floor leaning on the brickwork.

 

Whispered, “So it’s two hundred we’re selling?”

 

“Yeah, sure. I think.”

 

“We never measured it.”

 

“Nah, it’s cool. Ze’ev said Sicillie just eyeballs the sh*t.”

 

“What?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Forizzle C nizzle is with the shizzle my nizzle doper than nickels

That’s sprinkled over the cane

 

Party about six guys deep. Passing the joint, everyone shirtless. Plastic chairs and rap out the iFruit speaker dock, crushed up eCola cans and plastic like a wind swept a trash can over. Maybe had. Rusted out barbecue and a busted kick scooter.

 

“Ay! White boy!”

 

Sicillie. Rake thin, nappy dreads thick like a forearm. Shirtless, tattoos over painted-on abs, acid washed jeans higher than the waist. Heat slides and pant cuffs higher than the ankles. Cheekbones like knives, golden grills out baring his teeth predator-like.

 

Repeated, “Ay, yo! Ay!”

 

“Man, what’s up?”

 

“We thpoke on the phone, some? Nah, we did?”

 

“Yeah, yeah.”

 

“Or was that the nigga Zavi gookin’, cuh’ he Jewith too–”

 

Make her drink the cum sauce (Skeet it)

Bring her ass to my world

But this might have her ass lost

 

Another guy near the iFruit dock with ribbed jeans, “Nah, wait, nah nah, wait–”

 

“He was the du’ widdat’ thing nah, yeah, bro–”

 

Stoolboy said “It’s the Jewish nigga slid over got the Chinese food, bih, you know, bih.”

 

“Nah, I’m Kaz,” showed off the sling, “told you I was the cripple with the Chinese food. Cripple with Chinese food.”

 

Stoolboy led them closer. Sicillie stood up, “I ain’t finna get too wicked up, gon’ just- yo, how you, uh, nah nah–” went in for the dap.

 

“Watch the arm–”

 

Another one of the guys, fat boy with cornrows and bitch tits out, he said “You got it on you or you got the stuff in the car?”

 

Sicillie let go, had his arms on Kaz like a pat-down. “Jew boy two boy, how the f*ck you do, what up with it?” Meant Abbot.

 

Blinked. “Yeah,” Abbot muttered.

 

“Kaz and Yeah. Yeah, how you doin’, boy, how you doin’?”

 

“I’m- yeah, I’m okay.”

 

“He shy,” Stoolboy laughed.

 

“My friend here,” Kassian said, “he’s just a little f*cked up from the plane trip. Vovochka.”

 

“Yeah,” Abbot said. “I’m Vovochka.”

 

Sicillie, “Ya’ sh*t f*cked up but if the sh*t good I’on care how f*cked ya’ sh*t be, yo, how the f*ck it be though, jit, where it at?”

 

Out Kaz’s jacket. Fat bag of blue pills. “Four hundred here.”

 

Abbot stopped a moment.

 

Stoolboy whistled. “Goddamn!”

 

Like a light went off. Sicillie grinning that golden grin. Grabbed the baggie with both hands and got on his knees, “Hallelujah!”

 

Abbot was breathing a little harder. Just a little bit.

 

Fat boy, “We need the scale?”

 

“Bro, f*ck the thcale, this- ong- nah, we got some Israeli kinda’ pharmathutical kinda- bro, you gotta gimme’ a taste.” Back up his feet, “I gotta theal that deal, gimme’ a taste that bih, jit, c’mon.”

 

Sigh of f*cking relief.

 

On my golden dick, I'm icy

I got your whore so horny

Bring me anything that I need

 

Stoolboy off to the side now, off by the dock with a Logger in his hand, “Let him geek a lil’, yo, jit, pass that sh*t, bih, pass that sh*t.”

 

Opened the zip-lock. Kaz pulled out a pill. “Three ninety nine.”

 

“That sh*t gon’ buss, jit, that sh*t’s gonna buss. Some real gangster sh*t.”

 

“Yeah,” Kassian laughed. “Roy Zito kinda’ sh*t.”

 

Blank faces.

 

Ribbed jeans said “Who?”

 

“Who?” Like that was a question Kaz had never been asked before. “Who’s Roy Zito, you mean?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Oh,” fat boy said, “means the nigga jacked up the AIDS medicine prices a’ whatever the f*ck, he means.”

 

“Oh,” Stoolboy coughed, “like medicine, this medicinal, this nirvana sh*t.”

 

“No.” Abbot was lost in it, “That’s a different guy.”

 

“So he do good medicine, then, he ain’t goin’ to jail, it’s like a vaccine and sh*t.”

 

“No. He’s a gangster.”

 

Fat boy, “Oh, sh*t. Where?”

 

“In the city.”

 

“Which?”

 

“Liberty City. Liberty City.”

 

Sicillie, “So this some gangster movie sh*t, like he’s got the fedoras and sh*t?”

 

“No, he’s real.”

 

“They real? So he Italian?”

 

Kaz said “Yeah, like us.”

 

“You Jewish, though.”

 

“No- I mean, white. He’s white.”

 

And Sicillie cackled. Took the pill, “This that good-good, bro, this good-good.”

 

“We finna cut this sh*t up real good,” fat boy sang. “We finna triple this f*ckin’ spread, nigga, pleasure doin’ business with you, nigga.”

 

“What it worth. Eight grand, right?”

 

Could see that calculating in Kaz’s head. What he could get away with. “Nine, actually.”

 

“A’ight.”

 

Big smirk on Kassian’s face. “Good.”

 

“I make that in an hour, nigga,” stepping onto the porch and throwing his slides off, “Diamonds and pearls and emeralds, bih, we got that bih locked–”

 

“I’m staying sanguine,” Abbot said.

 

“Yeah, yeah. I be doin’ that too, I’ll get the roll. sh*t, you want the full ten?”

 

Blinked.

 

“Haha. Nah nah, nah, I’m playin’, but yo, I mean, you want a tip–”

 

“Actually,” Abbot said. “Yeah.”

 

“Yeah?” Standing in the doorway.

 

“We need a re-up on junk. You got any fingers?”

 

Salesman’s smile. Grills glistening. Sicillie said “This ass bigger than a bitch, nigga, got thmack cheeked up, make your eyes roll, you want that?”

 

Smiled right back.

 

***

 

Palm trees.

 

They’d met at Tashkent again. 163rd Street, Coquette parked outside. Restaurant at the base of a condo complex at the edge of Lazuli Beach, before the islands.

 

Drive was two hours up to Jaega Beach up I-95.

 

Abbot didn’t drive. Four men in the Benefactor, Abbot and Kaz in the back. Achban passenger side with Ibroxim - double chinned Uzbek with thick eyebrows, dressed in lavender - doing the chauffeuring.

 

Achban briefed.

 

Didn’t listen.

 

Palm trees. Road. Golf courses. Cheap fireworks. Personal injury lawyers.

 

Over a bridge across the lagoon. Late afternoon.

 

Jaega Beach. Drove through West Jaega, the skyscrapers, before hitting Jaega Beach the namesake - palm trees and country club golf courses, deep meridian and bleached white buildings cleaner than the soul. Vulcars and Pfisters, a nation of Spanish colonial roofs.

 

They called it the Jaega-Tyrolean Emissary Condominium.

 

It was a hotel, once. 1920’s Havana dreamboat beauty thing: faux-Versailles, knock-off Baroque. Theatrical grandiosity, cubed hedges, elegance of a bygone age kept breathing through sports car paint.

 

It was a hotel, once.

 

Parked the cars. Posse rolled out.

 

Got the order and Ilya from Tashkent had slapped a wad of bills on the table repeating it, “Dress nice, dress nice.” Recommended a tailor off Washington Street. They’d gone to the Fashion District - the Perseus boutique and Val-de-Grâce, sh*t like that.

 

Ilya sighed when he saw the get-up. They’d dressed nice. But Kaz didn’t tuck the shirt in. Wasn’t his thing. Perseus belt, he said. Guido Zenitalia and Didier Sachs, that’s dressing nice. Even if this were the only ‘nice sh*t’ he had.

 

Abbot in navy blue: navy blue shirt, navy blue slacks. Mack said he looked like a cop. Cop in monogrammed Sessanta Nove. Said he should have a watch, Abbot said “Let me borrow yours then.” Mack laughed.

 

Funny kid.

 

“Slim!”

 

Duplexed Ray Navarro in the car. Portuguese kid from Alderney. Bachelor’s Journal ‘Man of the Year’, people called him Slim because he wanted them to call him Slim. Kind of guy the Occupy Exchange people wanted to crucify; mortgage fraudster gone legit. Didn’t get to Duplex his buddy, George Rucker, tough looking black guy they said “Thank you for your service” to. Marine Corps, he explained, then the Agency.

 

Duplexed Devin Weston, son of Wyatt - anglicized Vassileios Oikonomou - father was a hotelier, cross coast player, owned Banner Hotel & Spa, then newspapers and baseball teams. Fell off his yacht and drowned in the Atlantic. Devin made his buck in the tech bubble, never touched it again, sold off the journalists but kept Banner as part of his holding company. Knew presidents, screwed princesses.

 

Wouldn’t be showing his face. He was with Norm and Rami Yalon on the island.

 

Norm was the name of the day. Norm Norm Norm, Norm’s this, Norm’s that. Got briefed about Norman Mauskopf in the car. Norm and Devin were both in finance - Norm was king sh*t in Florida. Norm was a neighborhood boy, grew up in Beachgate on Firefly Island. Financial consultant for Derriere, closest friend of the owner. He was a big fashion guy, big into modeling agencies.

 

Norman had an island near the Virgin Islands. He had a big house there. He flew his private jet from up in Jaega all the way down, brought politicians and businessmen and entertainment figures. He knew presidents, British royalty. He was a sex offender.

 

“We get whores from Norm,” Achban said.

 

Mack ran hookers in the condos all over Vice Beach. He ran gambling first, but hookers always. Pay-for-play girls from Russia, Sweden, the Midwest. He’d bring ‘em on the plane, and they’d f*ck on the plane. They’d f*ck on the island - the politicians, the businessmen, the royalty. Devin would f*ck, Norm would f*ck, everyone would f*ck. And for Mack, they’d f*ck for a dollar with émigrés and clients. 

 

They’d need to be tested, after all, before they got their runway debut with the celebrities.

 

“You do not talk about the women. If we are talking about the women, you keep it low.”

 

Achban had done work for them. Danya drove for Norm back when he was in Liberty, and he occasionally drove for him down in Florida.

 

“We had good times. All of us. This is our kingdom.”

 

They marched.

 

Old men in the condo. George said “We’ve heard about the goings-on in the city. About our friend, Mr. Devdariani. Norm spoke to some of his people, back in Israel, the men with the wigs.”

 

Achban said “Was it good last time?”

 

“The checks are all balanced,” Slim laughed. “Nuke’s gonna go off, though. This dumb slag wasn’t just talkin’ about Frenchmen. So we’re lookin’ at some layoffs. Norm and Devin is just hopin’ it don’t go up that far.”

 

Mack, “You think it will?”

 

“No,” went George. “Our friends with the bowties?”

 

“Which?”

 

“The.”

 

“Mm.”

 

“More spooks than a haunted house. In Langley, I got told the squares, they said it don’t go international and you don’t gotta worry. What’s happening with the Frumentarii, that don’t cross wires. It ain’t gonna be like the Wrench. They only want two centurions and the emperor.”

 

“Felix volunteered,” Achban said. “And we got the names to cull. The Universe, he’s never gone wrong. And Revaz, he got big dick syndrome. Him and the boxer-sans-belt.”

 

They marched to an indecipherable song.

 

They marched.

 

Abbot and Kaz lagged.

 

Was led to a conference room. Doors shut, men in gray sweatsuits with big red W’s embroidered on the breast.

 

|RESERVED FOR USE BY|

D. WESTON HOLDINGS &

HERALD FINANCING LTD.

 

“Hey, Abbo.” Ray Navarro. “Abbie-with-the-One-T.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Heard you like jazz. You know Kenny G?”

 

Blinked. “...Yeah.”

 

“Yeah, Kenny G, I love f*cking Kenny G. Listen though,” procession had stopped by the doors. Big men in their big tracksuits with folded arms, all eyes on the two. “It’s good meetin’ ya.”

 

They barely had. “Yeah.”

 

“Hey, after this, there’s tennis courts outside, this place got locker rooms, we wanna have some fun, we can have some fun. And we got some beautiful crop, real ripe ones–”

 

George stopped him. “Slim.”

 

“I’m just sayin’. You didn’t bring nothin’ but this place got a squash court, and it ain’t no problem getcha’ some- uh, what brands you like?”

 

“I don’t care about brands all that much,” Abbot went.

 

“Huh. Really? Okay, well, hey, more the merrier, but hey–”

 

Mack stopped him this time. Gentle, hand on the forearm. “We need to talk alone for a minute, Abbot.”

 

Achban’s face like concrete. “These are state secrets,” he went. “You got double-C, but not OB. We all got Особой Важности clearance.”

 

George, “For you, that’s Top Secret versus regular Secret.”

 

“Think it this way - Danya’s just on Confidential. That’s why he’s waiting in the lobby. So you two, you wait with him. We’re gonna clear high level sh*t first. Then we bring you guys in, we discuss logistics.”

 

Norm’s former bodyguard was lower on the totem pole. Looked back, big Danya looking uncomfortable in a small chair.

 

Kaz said “Okay.” His first words since the greeting and explaining his arm cast.

 

Mack, “Excellent. We’ll be concise.”

 

“We’ll be concise, too, then.” Kaz didn’t know what it meant.

 

Got smiles back. Slim pointed, clicked his tongue, winked.

 

Doors shut.

 

“C’mon.”

 

They went out the back.

 

Empty.

 

Nobody around in an empty courtyard, hexagonal brick, seaside view of the West Jaega skyscrapers. Chateau shadows bleeding down from up high. An empty tennis court, empty pools.

 

Empty.

 

Kaz laughed. Privately, then openly. Wouldn’t disclose, then would: “Kenny f*cking G!”

 

Abbot laughed too. “Yeah.”

 

“That cocksucker, man, f*ckin’ ‘Down-Low-Too-Slow’ asshole! And he goes Kenny G. Kenny G is his idea of jazz, man that no talent cheesy sellout hack f*ck.”

 

“Slim. Slim. That’s his name. Man’s creepy as all f*ck–”

 

“You know what?”

 

“What?”

 

“I could forgive that. I really could. The sleaze. If he didn’t have such dog f*ckin’ taste, man–”

 

“Hahaha!”

 

“Greasy bastard. Like- like- like, uh… god, this is some f*ckin’ Exchange, f*ckin’ sauna dick suck politico bullsh*t, man, it’s like I’m- governor’s mansion, White House.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“This Roy Zito sh*t?”

 

“Roy Zito, you expect what you get, and you get it. I guess. Fat Italians. Roy had good taste in music, anyway.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Fleetwood Mac.”

 

“And this Barium ballsucker, he likes–”

 

“He likes Kenny f*cking G.”

 

“Well heeled scumbags, man, nothin’ but. And that’s us, now.”

 

“I ain’t well heeled,” Kassian said. “I’m beautiful, you f*ck.”

 

End of the courtyard, past the sad abandoned pool. Past the empty tennis court. Down a little flight of stairs, big black gates. Stairs and the ocean. Stairs and West Jaega skyscrapers, stairs and Jaega Beach yachts.

 

Two outcrops to the sides. They jumped on top, then jumped over. Landed by the NO TRESPASSING sign on the other side, the concrete lip and the rocking water.

 

Black gates. One more, by the yachts. Yacht marina of a dozen pretty boats and a super yacht, three floors, Israeli and American flags waving.

 

No trespassing. Private members and guests only. This property is protected by 24 hour video surveillance.

 

Abbot said “We count as guests, right?”

 

“I think so.”

 

Kassian had a bum arm. Waited by the side. Abbot with one foot, one Oxford shoe, up on a concrete lip.

 

Climbed up.

 

Climbed up again, on top of the pillar. Pillar between the two gate doors, feet up high.

 

Kaz laughed.

 

Abbot extended a hand.

 

Clenched.

 

Scrambled up with one arm pinned to his chest.

 

He could make it.

 

He did.

 

Stood up high, eyes over the hedge, both standing on a space too small for both.

 

Abbot leapt.

 

Landed on the marina boards.

 

Kaz stared. Said “These clothes are new, man.”

 

Abbot said “You got this far.”

 

Sun was setting. Orange skies.

 

Kassian leapt.

 

Landed on the marina boards.

 

“Haha! Goddamn!”

 

“No celebrations yet, baby,” held him tight a moment, kissed him on the head. Lips. Kissed a long time, like a week went by. Held him by the back of the head saying “We gotta get back over again.”

 

“Security guards’ll come.”

 

“Yeah, f*ck it, right?”

 

Both chuckled.

 

Walked.

 

The yacht flags beat at the wind while the water rocked against marina wood. Orange skies, white skyscrapers lighting up with little blips. Little specks, little ant-cars riding the highways.

 

Sun turned the water amber. Florida clouds on fire against a bronze canvas.

 

Boats rocked. Water lapped.

 

Kaz laid down. Head on the wood. Clouds adrift.

 

Abbot joined him.

 

Watched dreams dance up high, salamander wonderland. Pinks down to the sea while it rippled and the cars blazed.

 

“I’m likin’ these vicissitudes,” Kassian sighed. “I’m really likin’ ‘em.”

 

“Liking what?”

 

“I love it here.”

 

Let those words echo into the air and spit down into the ocean floor. Didn’t reply.

 

“It’s beautiful, Abbot.”

 

Didn’t reply.

 

“So many f*ckin’ morons. So many easy takes. And the palm trees. The colors, man. I love it. I don’t want to go back, babe, I really don’t. I love this all so much.”

 

Didn’t reply.

 

“This is all I need. All we need. All I need is Vice City, Abbot, all this is, it’s beautiful.”

 

Florida was a needle. All it had was love.

 

“I think so too,” Abbot said. “I think so too.”

 

The Glossary

Vice City Map

Edited January 19, 2022 by slimeball supreme
Vice City's map is now complete.

[slimeball supreme]

Ecclesiastes

 

Kassian had injected between the toes.

 

Herbie Hancock playing. Jessica.

 

Abbot had his forehead on the glass coffee table. Eyes shut. Knee to his neck.

 

Didn’t know how long he’d been there.

 

Okay.

 

Fine.

 

Shirtless. Sweat flow drip-dripping, needle slipped out lying on the floor.

 

Didn’t know what time it was.

 

Okay.

 

Fine.

 

Unit was cleaned up pretty. 

 

They’d been there more than a week.

 

Only one bed. That was fine. Sterile whites and clean tilework. Barred windows. Coral pastels. Chain link outside. Parked the Cavalcade - again - on overgrown Bahia grass by the blue recycling bins. Backyard was this big concrete slab, ‘no trespassing’ planted on the wall.

 

No Zika.

 

There was sidewalk on a block-by-block basis out in Little Haiti. Driveways on a block-by-block basis. Driveways painted red or made outta turf pushed out the way by tyres, turned to dirt sludge.

 

A dozen vacant lots in a cramped grid of stucco houses, stucco apartments at two-floors high, stucco housing projects. Cars missing mirrors, cars missing rear lights, cars with mix-match parts, parked yellow cabs. Bubble-shaped Annis Agent, rusted out muscle cars, Japanese sedans missing parts. Missing grilles, missing lights, missing badges.

 

140 67th Street, between two Firsts. Churches and psychics four blocks west. Haitian grandmothers with headwraps, Haitian grandfathers with Cuban shirts and white fedoras.

 

Lime green apartments across the street. Kids had been watching the Cavalcade. Barbecues on the balcony and moms cradling babies. Baby pink apartments on the corner east. Vacant lot west. Bent up broken wooden pallet leaning on the utility pole.

 

Abbot blinked.

 

He’d slid onto the floor.

 

Kaz was nodding.

 

Abbot couldn’t stand. Legs were dead. Twisted, bowed on the carpet.

 

His glasses were missing.

 

Hands planted. Drooling, elbows bent, pushed up against the ground like he was shoving it away.

 

Eyeglasses lying on the coffee table near a puddle of sweat and dribble.

 

Mystery solved.

 

Stood up in boxers and socks and palmed his face, both hands, moaned a little, head turned hollow. Like he couldn’t balance, like his eyes were in his chest.

 

Put the glasses on.

 

Laminate flooring and inoffensive artwork. Thumb pulling bottom lip down.

 

Joy still pulsing through veins.

 

Staggered barefoot.

 

Back door.

 

Locked.

 

Stepped back.

 

Kitchen.

 

Key. Laminate countertop, laminate everywhere.

 

Grabbed.

 

Lurched back.

 

Key hole. Hands slipping.

 

Door opened.

 

Concrete slab. Open air.

 

Clammy pale skin feeling air. Feeling breeze on rock face.

 

Neighbor. Porch light on.

 

“Are you an artist?”

 

Could feel his eyes trying to jump out his skull.

 

Abbot. Shirtless.

 

Neighbor. Past the chain-link fence. Porch light on. Music playing, faint.

 

Mornin’ come, sun don’t shine

I’ll get by without you

 

“What?”

 

“Are you an artist?”

 

I was lost, but now I’m found

Tell me love it was you

 

Neighbor. Shirtless. Neighbor was sixty-something, neighbor was a black man with his hairline gone horseshoe friar aside from a tuft of gray on the crown. Cigarette smoke. Discarded tire, dog house, line of sculpted bushes.

 

Abbot repeated, “I don’t understand.”

 

Leaned back on his folding chair. His windows were barred. Smoke joined the clouds. Extended a hand. “Smoke?” neighbor said.

 

“No.” Cleared his throat. “I’m not an artist.”

 

“Vacation, then?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Sniffed. “Used to know the owner.”

 

“The French woman?”

 

“No.”

 

“She’s the owner.”

 

“No. Used to. They died.”

 

Blinked. “I’m sorry.”

 

“You didn’t kill ‘em.”

 

“They were killed?”

 

“Yeah. Sickle cells.”

 

“Oh.” Blinked. “Sorry. I knew, uh- I knew some people, uh- some… some family. They died of Tay-Sachs. Their kids.”

 

Neighbor sniffed. “You smoke?”

 

“No.”

 

Neighbor grinned. Pinched his fingers, held them to his mouth. “Haha. Yeah?”

 

Abbot looked like sh*t. Thought. Said “Yeah.”

 

“Hahaha! Yeah. Good times, huh? I ain’t done none in a while.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“But that’s ancient history.”

 

“A while since what?”

 

“Reefer.” Pinched his fingers. Grinned. “You ain’t an artist.”

 

“No.”

 

“From the Rhynestone. They come here. Can’t pay rent there. Used to be, they went there, ‘cause they couldn’t pay rent in Fashion District. Now, you see, boy.”

 

“I guess so.”

 

“Now you see.”

 

Abbot didn’t.

 

Abbot went inside.

 

***

 

Left that morning.

 

Vice City had the worst radio selection in the country.

 

Ten stations dedicated to Margaritaville and top ten hits. Nothing else. Adult contemporary stations playing top ten rap: Future, Big Sean, Lupe Fiasco, Drake. Looped from gospel back to top ten music and VRock.

 

Switched the f*cking radio off.

 

The greyhound guys. Where?

 

Kaz said “Baxter. Way down near the Keys. Near the Mires.”

 

“The what?”

 

“The swamp, the Quagmires.”

 

“They that kinda hick?”

 

“No, actually, no. It’s all Mexicans down there. Vadim knew ‘em, one of them used to live in Broker, y’know, but y’know they- uh, they’re not Mexican, well two of ‘em is Mexican, actually–”

 

“What?”

 

“It’s like- it’s a lot of guys together. Two of them are from Liberty. And some others are from, uh, from the area.”

 

“Is the Mexican from Liberty?”

 

“No.”

 

“How many f*cking guys is this?”

 

“It’s like seven in one place.”

 

“Jesus Christ. And dogs?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“What- why? Rent can’t be that bad.”

 

“They’re hustlers.”

 

“What?”

 

“Well, that’s why they have the dogs. Actually, I should call.”

 

“Call who?”

 

“It’s forty minutes–”

 

“To the dogs?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Why didn’t you tell me this?”

 

“It didn’t seem like a big deal.”

 

“Do they wash?”

 

“Yeah, most of ‘em.”

 

“What?”

 

“What? I answered your question.”

 

“Most of them.”

 

Kaz frowned. “I mean, I don’t know. I haven’t f*cking been there, Abbot, but I remember Ghassan–”

 

“Hassan?”

 

“Ghassan. He was Palestinian, and half the guys, they were like- grr, y’know? Like they hated him. Because he was Palestinian. So at the place is Ghassan and another guy from Liberty, he was half-Chinese. Fabian.”

 

“Okay. So two Libertonians.”

 

“Yeah. And then the rest are two Mexicans, and then some hicks. I should call him.”

 

“He’s got the greyhounds?”

 

“They all have the greyhounds.”

 

“Awesome. Do they smoke meth?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Oh, f*cking great.”

 

“That’s why they live together, Abbie.”

 

“Is there money in–”

 

Ring-a-ring.

 

Cavalcade was crawling down the I-95 past the palm trees and the brands. Kaz held up the phone. Abbot said “I can’t f*cking look–” and Kaz snapped out “Ze’ev.”

 

“Okay?”

 

“I’m gonna put him on speaker–”

 

“Why–”

 

Tap.

 

Yep.

 

Phone held between chairs on the center console, Kaz leaning over without seatbelt, “Как настроение? Братан!”

 

“Кассиан, эй, мужик, эй, ты свободен?” American accent on the Russian, high-enough pitch, “Я здесь с–”

 

“You’re on speakerphone!”

 

Beat.

 

“Okay?”

 

“I’m with Abbot! I told you about Abbot, I’m with Abbot, my boy?”

 

“Он не говорит по-русски?”

 

“I told you that! Say hi, Abbot.”

 

Abbot said “Hi, Abbot.”

 

Chuckle, “Smart ass f*cking prick. Hey, Ze’ev, we’re on our way down–”

 

“The thing?” No Russian accent. American - high pitched, faint lines of Broker rhotic, mostly speaking through the jowls - but no Russian. “With that motherf*cker Ghassan?”

 

“Yeah, in Baxter.”

 

“Hey, hold on–”

 

“Spit it out,” Abbot went, “I’m on the road.”

 

“Already?” Ze’ev grunting. “Okay, where?”

 

Kaz, “We just got on the Interstate, it’s only been five minutes, we just hit the road–”

 

“I’m with some friends.”

 

“Okay?”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, nah, listen, he know you comin’?”

 

“Not yet. I was gonna call him. But I was talking on LifeInvader with him about coming down, we’re just in the city–”

 

“Nah, nah, listen. That’s an hour. We–”

 

“Forty minutes.”

 

“We’re in Ocean Beach. Me and those friends I was talking about. And we’re balled the f*ck out, man, and we was wondering, you wanna come–”

 

“Yes.” No hesitation.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah. Where are you?”

 

“Uh, f*ck–”

 

Abbot snapped the neck frowning, eyes off the road on Kaz’s f*cking smile. Kaz blurted “We’re on uh,” craned his neck to the window, “exit 3A we’re passing, I don’t f*cking know, I see graffiti, like, everywhere, so we’re near Hipster-f*ckin’-ville–”

 

“Hey, listen–”

 

“You gonna be on Ocean Drive?”

 

“...We can.”

 

“Sick as f*cking f*ck. Okay–”

 

“Just take, uh- I don’t know what the exit- 2D? I don’t know. But it’ll say Viceport on the sign, via tunnel it’ll say, and Vice Beach. You turn that corner and it’s a straight shot over the Causeway.”

 

“Ace, man, f*cking ace.”

 

Abbot’s lips tight like his grip on the wheel, knuckles white. Nearly said something.

 

Didn’t.

 

“I got a surprise for you.”

 

“Okay! Okay!” Kassian’s teeth glittering, “Nice.”

 

“We’re goin’ for lunch right now. Me and the people I told you, y’know, and I told them you’re down and wanna know, y’know, what they’re doin’.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“We’re on Fredendall Ave’,” said it the shortened way, “we’re goin’ south, I got them tailing me.”

 

“Tailing?”

 

“That’s the surprise. I’ll text you an address.”

 

“Dude.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Duuude.”

 

“Hahaha! Yeah?”

 

“Dude, I can’t f*cking wait, neither can Abbot. Say ‘I can’t wait,’ Abbot.”

 

Abbot, “I can’t wait Ab–”

 

“Abbot! Jinx! f*ck you, shut the f*ck up. We’ll be over there, love you dude.”

 

Ze’ev laughing, “I’ll see you.”

 

“Mwah! Mwah! I’ll see you. Bye bye.”

 

“I’ll see you, Ka–”

 

Beep.

 

Hung up.

 

Kassian smiling like he’d never smiled before.

 

Beat.

 

“What the f*ck, man?”

 

Still smiling, “I did us a favor.”

 

“What about the greyhounds?” Abbot feeling the smiles, airborne infection, half-breaking into it. “We just ditching them?”

 

“We didn’t tell them. You wanna go to the keys, buy some f*cking dogs, we can do it after. Okay?”

 

Grinned. “Fine.” 

 

“And shut up, I jinxed you.”

 

Grinned.

 

Drove.

 

***

 

 

They had one.

 

The Axe. WAXE. Host was older, gravel-growl black man mumbling between songs. Pee Wee, the Axeman.

 

Passed the tunnel, passed the theme park on Tizio Island swimming in the Balear Bay turquoise.

 

Crossed the Beauregard Causeway.

 

Andy and the Bey Sisters on.

 

Horizon of cruise liners. 

 

Right was south, was Viceport, was downtown and the skyscrapers over Burnett. Was construction cranes and ivory high-rise fingers pointing up at the sky. Packed together, all new developments, all built within the last ten years, all anodyne, all committee and condos where the palm trees didn’t dance. All fractal, all nameless.

 

Fish in the sea

You know how I feel

River running free

 

Was cruise liners. Was a couple dozen of ‘em lined up along the port, reverberating brands on teal-tinted glass and alabaster steel. Up from the Caribbean, sent back down, here to wallow and exchange bodies.

 

Left was north, was fishing boats. Was yachts.

 

You know how I feel

Blossom on a tree

You know how I feel

 

Marble polka dots on gentle-rock waves. A million Marquis sailboats, a million wood-panels, palm leaves swirling, hypnotic decadence moored out. Poking opulent holes in the ocean, sun-burning storm.

 

The islands.

 

Dragonfly out in the sun, you know what I mean, don’t you know?

Butterflies all havin’ fun, you know what I mean

Sleep in peace when day is done, that’s what I mean

 

Hedges and emergency stops only signs bruising the view. Like it was all secret. It wasn’t. A second bridge on the bridge cut a toll booth gash across the channel: Caio & Sempronio Islands. A little further, where the cigarette boats lapped, that was Starfish Island. Spanish Revival mansions and palm trees, celebrities and seaside swimming pools. Cranes and superyachts, orange-peak rooftops on blue skies and blue seas, white clouds and white boats.

 

Blue, white, blue white.

 

Coast Guard HQ. Ferry terminal in faux-waves and faux-flash. Vice City Modernism; ViMo, parking lot modernism. Waiting condo glory.

 

Vice Beach. American paradise.

 

Stars when you shine, you know how I feel

Scent of the pine, you know how I feel

Oh, freedom is mine

And I know how I feel

 

Always construction sites and utility cabs passing the yellow cabs on Washington Street. Lively marinas and empty sidewalks. Causeway opened out onto Washington, onto a wall of white condominiums and the ViDi mall with the fruity sculpture out front. Hip hotel bar with vine-covered walls and hard-hat roadwork.

 

Jackhammer dreams on Episkopi Street, didn’t turn. Straight shot to Ocean Drive. Workplace startup and Burger Shot and the Welcome - Vice Beach sign. Pfister SUVs and cargo-short husky walkers and lifestyle salesmen. More modern Vigeros than people.

 

Spanish tiles and art deco.

 

Turned onto Ocean Drive.

 

Andy Bey off long ago. Hambone, Archie Shepp. Palm trees seducing, Snapmatic heaven.

 

Kaz said “Go slow.” Kaz said the address: Loogie’s Cafe at 760, on the corner of Heraklion.

 

Every hotel had three stars. Some two.

 

Curb crawling in January, feeling like springtime, feeling gifted on an avenue of dreams. Swimsuits and sunglasses and outdoor dining, yellow fire extinguishers and green-stalk palm trees with claw hands. Valets and scooters. Rib of sand behind cobbled walls and palm trees.

 

White-and-dandelion Classique Oceanic parked outside the Ocean View, older than God. People watching, photo-takers and senile cane crab walkers on sunbaked pink pavement.

 

“Yo, yo - they filmed the chainsaw scene there. You see?”

 

Saw. Between two hotels: the Vicar and the Dakota.

 

It was a Pill Pharm.

 

“Did they? From Vicegrip?”

 

“You can see the stairs. And it was next to the Vicar in the movie, dude. It was.” Big grin on his face.

 

It was a pharmacy.

 

Valet parking and bicycles.

 

Loogie’s was next to the Moondust Hotel. Tacky little modernist restaurant with a big balcony and big umbrellas saying Support Global Cooling! No doors, just fences and two guys in restaurant shirts who looked like bouncers. Obnoxious music.

 

“Yo! Haha! Abbot! Abbot, you see!”

 

Saw the surprise. Had seen it before they pulled up.

 

Grotti. Grotti Equinozio T, in deep blue with blacked out rims, blacked out windows, pretty yellow brake calipers. Parked up on the curbside opposite the volleyball courts. Nestled up against the keychain vendors with the cyclists passing, the backpacks, the young families holding kids by the hand.

 

Tourists stopping. Gawking a moment, whispering, pulling out phones, taking pictures.

 

Nobody getting too close. 

 

Two big guys. Chubby and built.

 

Chubby guy: thin, asiatic eyes. Big cheeks. Curly hair gelled back, strands clumping together, double chin occupied by scraggly beard. Brown felt sneakers and motorcycle jacket with a tab collar. Eating a Cubano, hand in his pocket.

 

Built guy: black tattoo graphic tee, rose with a thousand horns. Black cargo shorts, rimless designer shades and black backward flat-brim. Chin strap, angular features, blue eyes and hand-painted hair dye. Looked like balayage.

 

Kaz waved.

 

Chubby guy waved back. Beaming like f*ck.

 

Muscles was soldier-faced.

 

“Zed!” Kaz yelling, “Yo, holy f*ck!”

 

Ze’ev, the chubby guy, extended other hand. “You look like AIDS, bro.”

 

“The arm? Man, f*ck the cast, I ain’t takin’ the thing off ‘til LC, so f*ck it, I don’t even got a regular doctor, so f*ck it, y’know, I’m a cripple now.”

 

Got a laugh back. “You drive?”

 

Nudged head at Abbot, “I got the chauffeur. Dude, I don’t even need the arm no more, they can cut it off, they really can. I’m, like, I’m evolved to be a one-arm bandit motherf*cker.”

 

Laughs. Abbot chuckling.

 

Muscles soldier-faced. “I don’t, dehh, I don’t see the humor in arms, mon chum,” had this f*cked up mouth-gurgling French accent. “Like, driving’s, like, liberty, my guy, it’s–”

 

“I don’t need to,” Kaz sang.

 

“You drove here.”

 

“It’s a joke.”

 

Faked spitting on the ground. Grinned.

 

Ze’ev introduced, “This is Maxime-Réal, how you doin’, he’s good, he makes sure they don’t use no selfie sticks, or nothin’ like that. This is Kassian, Kazy Kaz, I sold his pot in, like, in tenth grade, he was my Roy Zito.”

 

Maxime-Réal kept arms crossed, kept smiling. “You’re cool, right?”

 

Kaz said “Yeah.”

 

“I got blow if you want, my guy, I got blow.”

 

“No, I’m good.”

 

“The- the, deh, offer is open, though, so, t’sais, y’know.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“He’s from Quebec, from Laval,” Ze’ev said.

 

“A lot of French out here,” Kaz went.

 

Maxime, “My parents, they own a lot of houses, a lot of homes.” It comes out ouses and omes. “They own a lot of them in Zetterlund Beach, y’know, it’s good, and y’know, I’m gonna- it’s good, it’s cool.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Grinned again. Shadow boxed the air, fist missing the shoulder, chuckled going “Ah, bin, I gotcha, shoulda’ been faster. I squeeze le cidre, the f*cking cider out of Adam’s Apples, man, they f*ck with the car, I f*ck with them.”

 

Blinked.

 

Ze’ev, “Kazy’s a lover, not a fighter. This is Abbot, glasses–”

 

Abbot nodded, “Yeah.”

 

“Abbot’s a fighter, I’m told.”

 

“I guess. I just fix problems.”

 

Maxime, “For Kassian?” First time he says the name, comes out kassyah.

 

“No, just for now, while his arm’s broke.”

 

Ze’ev said “We go way back, though, Max.”

 

Kaz, “That we do.”

 

“In high school, we know this guy Lenny, good guy, but his father was successful. Businessman, entrepreneur, like us, but some kid starts sh*t talking the pops. Calls him–”

 

“HEY!” Maxime at a Latino tourist leaning up against the door. “Go back!”

 

Tourist said “Sorr–”

 

“No, you just don’t touch the f*cking paint! Alarm goes off! Go back, dickhead!”

 

Eyes on the tourist.

 

Stepped away.

 

Ze’ev, “Anyway, Lenny threw a book at the punk’s head and me and Kaz, we held him down while Lenny busted his windpipe, some gangster sh*t.”

 

Maxime still glaring at the tourist.

 

Tourist backed away.

 

“Oh,” Ze’ev said, “we gotta talk business.”

 

Crossed the street.

 

Followed.

 

Quebecois stayed with the Grotti.

 

Through the not-door of Loogie’s, past the bouncer-lookers and the spring break guys with bar food and slush puppies. Kaz said “These are those people?”

 

“Yeah. Reina and her brother.”

 

“Hey, though, we gotta talk–”

 

“You can say it to these–”

 

“No, Ze’ev, about the dope.”

 

“You gonna plotz? What’s the problem, it’s fent, what’s the issue?”

 

Up stairs. Crowd in sleeveless shirts going up, going down, pop music playing. “I lowballed the guy, the black guy.”

 

“Sicillie?”

 

“Yeah, I said four and gave him two.”

 

Beat. “He just eyeballed it, though?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“He’s a moron, don’t worry about it.”

 

“What?”

 

“Yeah,” reached the top of the stairs, “ain’t no shande, you’re gonna be fine. Sicillie is an idiot, you only buy xans from a guy like that, he ain’t never bought fent before.”

 

“His buddy, the fat guy?”

 

“Zip? He’s okay.”

 

“He might suss it out. Seemed smarter.”

 

“If they do, just give them the rest. You ain’t sold it?”

 

“No.”

 

“Yeah. But they won’t–”

 

“They overpaid, too. I highballed the number–”

 

“Ball ball ball!” Had reached the balcony now. Bikinis and hot wings. “Stop it. Quit bitching. You made him overpay? Just how the game works. They won’t stress. So chill. Can you front me a C-Note?”

 

Beat.

 

He didn’t even flinch when he asked.

 

Abbot said “Why the f*ck?”

 

Ze’ev shrugged. “You can’t? You broke?”

 

Kaz, “No, no. I can.” Dug through his jeans, his wallet, Abbot’s eyes prying when he handed the hundred dollar note right over.

 

No hesitation, just pocketed it. “Since you made a profit–”

 

“Yeah, it’s cool.”

 

And the big guy pointed. “They’re over there.” Corner of the outdoor area, under the umbrellas, chromed out table. “I texted you’d be coming. With the arm cast and your buddy with the coke bottle lenses.”

 

Abbot glared, Ze’ev didn’t look. Still eating the sandwich.

 

Two people.

 

Smoke drifting. Parasols on weak wind, blue Grotti gleam from a floor down streetside.

 

Ze’ev had left.

 

Pop radio. Drake turned to Adele. Phone open on the table in the corner, G-Eazy album, earbud wires leading to one of two patrons.

 

Approached.

 

Woman and man. Both white, both young; mid-twenties. Both look alikes, related - sister and brother. 

 

Was the brother who had the phone out, G-Eazy on. Kid with a French Crop, faded sides with a long fringe clumped up. White Bigness tee and black bandana fashioned like a boy scout necktie, gold pyramid pendant peeking through.

 

Kaz said “Trouble.”

 

Brother said “Hey! Kazy! Qué bolá, asere?”

 

“Abbot, this is Reina. This is Abiam, Trouble. Of the tribe.”

 

Sister, Reina, kinked-out undercut. Bone thin. Unzipped lilac hoodie, Crevis gym crop top, eyeglasses with white rims. Mole under the eye, big hazel irises with thick brows.

 

Abbot rubbed his elbow, let the moment simmer. “Jewish?”

 

Trouble, “Ain’t about that for me, I’m M.O.E, bro, I’m moey, but yeah, but it’s M.O.E.”

 

“Sephardic,” Reina said. “So, yessir.” Vice City Spanglish accents, occasional rolled Rs, kept largely American. White Cuban.

 

“I’ve been actually,” Kaz stammered, “I’ve been kinda’ keepin’- uh, a-” tap-tapped the back of his hand, “a lid, y’know?”

 

They kept standing. Reina crossed arms, leaned back, “Yeah?”

 

“Sit down,” Trouble all simpatico.

 

Took seats.

 

Buds out the brother’s ears, strumming the table, “You guys want nothin’?”

 

“Isn’t my kind of place,” Abbot replied.

 

Reina, “What kinda place is yours?”

 

Kaz, “Dick suckin’ under the bridge.”

 

“Ball buster,” Abbot chuckled. “But what is this, where’s the Ze’ev guy, who knew the mark who bought the fent?”

 

“The Grotti,” Trouble said, “he’s just makin’ sure nobody touches the baby.”

 

“I know, but, I was just under the impression he’d be the, uh, the- ‘cause I don’t really know why we’re here.”

 

Everyone smiling.

 

Big smiles.

 

Reina leaned forward. “You cool?”

 

Kaz, “He’s cool.”

 

Abbot, “I’m good.”

 

“Yeah,” Reina said. “Okay.”

 

“So, Sicillie,” Kaz said. “The fentanyl mark. He’s a sucker, but these circles we all run in, it’s ‘cause of Snapmatic. Which I don’t use. Sicillie finds Ze’ev, he finds Reina and Trouble, he finds them on Snapmatic.”

 

Trouble, “I do club promotion. I run an account, I got good follows, got a lotta follows.”

 

Abbot said “Nightclub sh*t?”

 

“Yeah. And the nice cars. And the bitches with some fat asses, bro, beautiful cars, lots of f*ckin’ cash, these flash f*ckin’ parties, super ratchet hoes and ratchet parties.”

 

Reina added “Blow.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“And blow.”

 

“So?”

 

Thumbed back at him, “He takes it as an insult.”

 

“What insult, you just insert it, it’s an insult. It’s an insult.”

 

“You use?” Abbot asked.

 

“F*ck you. No. I don’t know. I use like anyone else, bro, it’s no problem, you don’t judge–”

 

Kaz, “We don’t judge.”

 

Smacked his lips. “Sure.”

 

Abbot, “Your parents give you any sh*t?”

 

“What the f*ck that supposed to mean?” Spat that out hot.

 

“He meant nothing by it,” Reina sighed.

 

Kaz a little frantic, “Yeah. Can we just talk about–”

 

Trouble, “Yeah, okay. Whatever, bro. Irregardless. Whatever, pero like, what I’m saying is, bro, you know, it’s a lot of good times, ya tu sabes, you wanna- pero like, we party. Big time.”

 

Reina sang “We cut dope so good you can call us lumberjacks.”

 

“We know people. That sorta’ thing.”

 

“And Sicillie flexes,” Reina said. “Que cute. Makes rap videos. Puts them online. Has his account, hits people up, hits Abiam up at parties, you know.”

 

“So,” Abbot replied, “this is a dope thing?”

 

Kaz smiled so wide his lips were touching the ear lobes. “Absolutely f*cking not.”

 

“Okay?”

 

“Abbie, baby, you like cars, right? Listen.” Turned to the siblings, “Abbot used to joyride, he used to steal cars, when he was a kid.”

 

“Kaz–”

 

“Don’t deny it! C’mon. I told Ze’ev. You’re great with cars. And there was that thing, back in… June, July, Abbie boosts a car. We flipped the thing. But when Abbot was a kid he joyrided all the time.”

 

Eyes on Abbot.

 

Abbot relented. “Sure.”

 

Trouble went “Aha! Okay.” Admiration in that.

 

Elbow on the table, massaged his temple. “I mean,” Abbot stuttered, “I’m not gonna brag.”

 

Kaz said “You should brag.”

 

“Go f*ck yourself,” smiling. “It was good times.”

 

Reina, “You like cars?”

 

Abbot shrugged.

 

Woman smirked. “We love cars.”

 

“You got a Grotti, man, you got an Equinozio, I see the thing and the big guy. I’m guessing the racket is, what, you advertise clubs with the thing?”

 

Kaz’s phone rang.

 

Eyes.

 

Kaz checked.

 

Squinted.

 

Frowned a sec, cut it, went back to smiles. “Look,” he said, “I gotta take this, but Abbie. Abbie. Don’t be cynical, this is beautiful, you gotta hear this. It’s gonna blow your mind, Roy Zito sh*t. I’ll be a moment.”

 

Stood.

 

Left.

 

Faint talking and faint walking.

 

Eyes on the siblings.

 

Reina repeated, “You like cars, Abbot?”

 

“Fine,” Abbot said. “Sure. Stop f*cking saying that.”

 

Let that splash off her back. “Abiam loves cars, too. And for his job, he leases out a Pegassi. And he puts it in the photos, he gives it back, leases out another car, more photos.”

 

Trouble, “I get DMs, they wanna know where I got ‘em. Because people see the ‘Gassi, ya tu sabes, they go brain-sh*t. They go papi, where you get it, nigga, nice whip, let’s ride, dale, papi. You know?”

 

Abbot nodded.

 

Reina said “We sublease.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Because it’s hard to rent a nice car. And you want it for a music video, and you got bad insurance, they’re not gonna jump. So, you rent the car. You then let someone lease the leased car.”

 

Got a frown back. “So?”

 

“You drown ‘em in vig.”

 

Light went off. “Oh, sh*t.”

 

“Yeah. You lease for 2K, they lease for 10K. ‘Cept, you know, much more, it’s an exotic. They don’t know they getting screwed. Then you put vig on the lease, say it’s ‘cause of depreciating value. Or you loan them money for it and charge on every end.”

 

Trouble, “We started a company. Tropic Exotic Rentals. Take photos. They see it on the Matic, they wanna lease it, they wanna be millionaires without grinding.”

 

Dollar signs in Abbot’s eyes. “Yeah?”

 

“And corporations got employees. That’s where Ze’ev and the Quebecker come in. Sometimes the leeches don’t pay. They make ‘em.”

 

“How much you make outta this?”

 

“We’re talking six digits, papi.”

 

“Get the f*ck out. On the regular?”

 

“Regular as breathing,” Reina went. “You don’t got insurance, you couldn’t get the car. So we rent to the market that couldn’t rent it themselves. We rent to d-boys, we rent to rappers, we rent to illegals and leeches. And charge them ten times they’d get at a legit place, with vig, since they signed the contracts and don’t know this sh*t anyways. They get their mama to pay they taxes. They don’t need to know you don’t pay interest on a rental car.”

 

“You get six digits? Suckers got money. That’s good hustle.”

 

“Money talks, bullsh*t walks. People wanna look rich out here. It’s Vice City, you don’t got a Grotti? That’s the finesse.”

 

Trouble, “And they don’t pay, you know, we got trackers on the car, de pinga, we take that sh*t back with interest. We maintain the fleet.”

 

Abbot, “And you don’t own any of the cars in the fleet?”

 

“Don’t need to. We got ten we lease,” Reina went. “We rent from idiots. People who don’t put trackers on. And then we put the trackers on ourselves. We’ve had people get wise. And we told them to keep their eyes shut, and they did.”

 

Abbot smirked, “They don’t want torched whips?”

 

“Supposably.”

 

Trouble, “If the suckers wanna race it, we make a cut. They get a ticket, they pay a bigger percentage. They total it, they die. We only got one totaled, and we got that nigga in slavery now. Cracked that coon’s legs so bad he can’t work pedals.”

 

“And then the dope,” Reina said, “that’s good money. ‘Cause we got cousins. We’re kindred.”

 

“Your cousins?”

 

“No,” she said. “You and us. We’re kindred.” 

 

Blinked. 

 

Blinked. Abbot, “Since we’re Jews?”

 

“Nah,” woman smiled. “That’s part of it, the tribe is part of it. We met Kassian on LifeInvader. Ze’ev, too. Zed’s like us. Russia to Hove Beach; Cuba to Seminole. Seminole is the Cuban Hove Beach. Émigré folks. Like you.”

 

Trouble, “Like us.”

 

Abbot said “True.”

 

“Your parents jump on boats, bro. Our grandparents had a whole villa, we sold sugar, we had all these people, bro, Castro take that sh*t. De pinga. He take the sugar mill, he take our people, he take our family’s money. We have to get out on boats, bro. Your parents, too.”

 

Reina, “We came to this country poor, from a country where we were rich, because of a handout regime. We’re hard workers. Now we make good money. We built Vice City, Cuban people, we built it up to the top, because we’re working people. No handouts.”

 

“My family isn’t rich, though. My pa sold carpets.”

 

“To get ahead here, yeah.”

 

“No. He sold carpets in Belarus. Or something, I don’t remember, but he was a haberdasher, he was in textiles. Here he was worse off.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

“But he was poor there.”

 

“In communism, Abbot, everyone is equally poor.”

 

“America,” Trouble said, “isn’t handouts. That’s why it’s great. Every clout chasing pata sucia wetback from the hood wants a Grotti. Y’know, dale, let ‘em kill theyself.”

 

“We’re entrepreneurs,” Reina waxed. “Both of us. We make money as anyone else would. That’s America. Now entrepreneur is a slur. That’s communism.”

 

Abbot, “I don’t care about politics.”

 

“Our only politics is anti-sucker. Anti-leech. Leeches on welfare, leeches jump the border, leeches smoke crack, leeches lease cars they can’t afford. We sleep soundly.”

 

“M.O.E.,” Trouble said. “You gotta stay M.O.E.”

 

“So you and us,” Reina stopped a moment. Something real in her eyes. “We’re alike. We’re escaped slaves.”

 

Abbot thought.

 

Abbot nodded. “It’s good money.”

 

Smiled wider. “You wanna see something?”

 

Abbot thought.

 

“Okay,” he said.

 

Kaz was on the stairs.

 

Metal landing, ran into the corner past the kids in floral wifebeaters.

 

Kaz was still on the phone. Hunched over, hand half-heartedly concealing lips.

 

Group of three came down. Siblings passed.

 

“Тебе нужно остыть, черт возьми,” Kaz spitting buckets on the floor.

 

Abbot with the cocked brow, grabbed him by the arm.

 

Kassian brushed it off. Glared.

 

Abbot backed off.

 

Frantic. Kassian breaking into English with “This isn’t a good time,” “I gotta go,” spit spit spit, seamless flow into Russian rambling.

 

Hung up. “I bought us some time.”

 

“Who?” Abbot grabbed by the arm, “They wanna show us something–”

 

“My uncle.”

 

Stopped.

 

Blinked. Abbot, “Your uncle?”

 

“He was f*cking screaming at me, dude.”

 

“What? Why?”

 

“I bought us some time, a couple days, but we gotta see him, he’s f*cking pissed, and my mom’s f*cking real pissed.

 

“Why?”

 

Groaned, “I didn’t tell them I was here.”

 

“Okay. They ain’t entitled to that, Kazy.”

 

“Nobody’s in Liberty to claim the body.” 

 

Stopped.

 

Heart like a rock. “Oh.”

 

“Police don’t want him no more. But nobody’s in the city to claim it. How’s it my f*cking problem? Put that prick in the Humboldt. But they called my mom, and- and, yeah, you know–”

 

“You’re screwed?”

 

Threw his hands up.

 

Abbot said “Listen.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I heard the pitch.”

 

“Yeah, and you wanted to buy f*ckin’ Vadim’s greyhounds.”

 

“You did. But this is great. And it–”

 

“Then let’s go. C’mon. Follow, they wanted to show us–”

 

“Okay. Okay. But this is great.”

 

Kaz’s teeth lit up; porcelain boneshow. “I told you.”

 

Streetside.

 

Ze’ev pointing. Talking to Trouble. Trouble fist bumping, Reina nodding with Maxime.

 

Grotti gleaming.

 

In earshot, Canadian said “--good thing is that molly, ma gang, the ecstasy, it’s basically legale. Euh, legal. So you can mix with the cocaine no problem. Peser sur l’gaz un peu, euh, you do it like this and you’re set. For real, man.”

 

Woman crossed back through the street with Maxime. Not even a moment to think. Across Ocean Drive onto Heraklion past sportsbikes and tourists.

 

Followed.

 

Speedwalking. Half jogged to catch up, both on a mission, curled around the back of the hotels.

 

Vice Beach alleys.

 

Ocean Court was one long gutter behind the hotels and restaurants along the Drive. Water puddle wound digging miles up ahead. Dumpsters and graffiti, shuttered doors and sealed ladders. Kitchen porters on smoke break under stair landings.

 

Behind Loogie’s. Reina saying “Some mojado, I saw.”

 

Maxime, “So you know it’s wetbacks, man? You know this for sure?” Starts muttering to himself, “Le diable est aux vaches, me semble. F*ck.”

 

Bicycles leaning against walls. Reina’s eyes on security cameras - black orbs like pustules on skin - said “Absolutely.”

 

Abbot looked behind.

 

Kaz wasn’t following.

 

“Hey,” he said.

 

Woman said “Yeah?”

 

“So how can we hook up? You got a phone number?”

 

Laughed, “I’m an adult, papi.”

 

“Just business. You wanna–”

 

Maxime yelled. “Over here! You saw! You saw right! Ostie de coco de merde, j'vais t'décâlisserai de l'état.” Spits. “Piece of sh*t. Ç’prend pas la tête à s’ranger du côté rouge, get everything f*cking handed to them. Bullsh*t.”

 

Blue Merit. 2003 model. Dustied.

 

Had circled around the back.

 

Rear window.

 

 

Darwin Klyman sticker. 

 

Text on Abbot’s phone.

 

Stared at the car.

 

“Some f*cking trash,” she said. “Venezuelan or Salvadoran, some illegal vaca thot. Castro piece of sh*t, who hate businesses, who want bread lines. Yet they work here. No breadlines in the restaurant.”

 

“I saw her use the iFruit. She use the phone, the latest sh*t."

 

“Dumb bitch. It’s naïveté, or it’s stupidity.”

 

Maxime spat. Spat spat spat. Snorted running nose, in the zone talking half to himself, “I saw this dumb bitch, she drive like a moron, guy. Un autre p’tit chômeur qui n'sert jamais à rien, qui n’hesite pas d’nous passer un papier avec sa Declassé d’merde. Christi."

 

Abbot said “Huh.”

 

“Right? And they come to America. Venezuelan, probably, to suck up blood. Or to hell, man. Who f*cking know. f*cking stupids, these socialistes. Y’ont toujours l’aire magané aussi. Always ugly in the face, y’know what I mean?”

 

Checked his phone.

 

Achban.

 

 

Eyes up.

 

Reina, “They won’t know socialism until it comes to them. Pobrecita. Our people, we’ve seen it.”

 

Quebecois circling the car, “Piece of sh*t, man. We see this bitch while we wait for you on the street.”

 

 

“She couldn’t be Cuban.”

 

“In Québec it’s communists, too. People come here and they wanna–”

 

“It’s a disease. They come to leech.”

 

“It’s a disease, bro. f*cking- l’arrogance. Euh," snaps fingers, "the entitlements. Always on chômage, unemployment. Good for nothing. Don’t matter where you go, same story.”

 

“It’s a disease,” Reina said.

 

 

Abbot, “I gotta–”

 

“Hold on. You want to see what we do to socialists in Vice City?”

 

 

“I got something came up–”

 

“Don’t pussy out. This is activism.”

 

Maxime, “Activism, ha! Un bon gag, ça. That’s good. That’s funny.”

 

 

Pulled out a marker. Grotti car keys. Maltese cross.

 

Reina, she had a little wooden pill. Flicked it. Folding knife.

 

Abbot stepped back.

 

Woman knelt down.

 

Maxime scrawling over the sticker, triple-crossed the Darwin logo out, felt-tip squeaking, halfway outta ink streaking on a fade. Black turning grain. Canadian grunting, Canadian going screw it, Canadian tossing the thing altogether. 

 

Tyre pop when the pen knife dug into the rubber.

 

Keys doing loops in the paint. Digging down, digging up, hitting the window. Hit-hit-hitting the window.

 

Not breaking.

 

Reina stood up.

 

Primed her arm.

 

Looked to Abbot.

 

Smashed the glass.

 

Alarm didn’t ring. The car didn’t have one.

 

***

 

Little Amir was a skinny Tajik standing at 6’4, cropped side part and ribbed black turtleneck, patchy pencil mustache like an off-work magician. Achban had said he was a nutjob: Libertonian used-to-be, former helicopter pilot with the Russian Navy, made strippers bark like dogs and fight for spare krone in Christiania, crashed choppers into swimming pools.

 

Didn’t say hi.

 

Little hand-held thing in his hand, black plastic, looked like a walkie talkie.

 

It wasn’t.

 

He was scanning Achban’s Magnate for bugs.

 

Kaz, “Nice whip.”

 

Amir’s voice rode at the top of his throat, “Tell Achban.”

 

“Why?”

 

“His car.”

 

“He drives a Dominator.”

 

“Probably.”

 

“Probably what?”

 

“I don’t know what car he drive normal.”

 

Door jangled. Achban all brusque with Danya trailing, “Abbot, we’re headed to Fountain Head, in Fort Tequesta. Amir, is it clean?”

 

Amir said “Evidently.”

 

“Where’s your car?” Kassian asked.

 

“Here,” Achban said. “I’m driving.”

 

“The Dominator, though?”

 

“Yeah, it’s busy.”

 

“What?”

 

“Shut the f*ck up a moment.”

 

They hit the road. Danya didn’t come.

 

Achban with the match-lit stoagie and the open window rolling up northbound, no explanation.

 

Tobacco smoke and palm trees.

 

Didn’t speak.

 

Didn’t speak ‘til Kassian did. “Where’s your Dominator?”

 

“At home.”

 

Abbot, “What is this?”

 

“Emergency.”

 

“About what?”

 

Achban’s hand off the steering wheel. Flexed his palm, was saying hush with clawed fingers.

 

Didn’t hush. “Amir scanned the car for bugs, with the f*ckin’ wifi extender, this should be clean.”

 

“It’s just precaution.”

 

“Why?”

 

“You’re on a need to know f*cking basis.” Achban clenching his hand, unclenching. “These people have managerial positions.”

 

“Who? Meeting?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Who, f*cking Maze Bank? Cooper Jackson?”

 

“Italians.”

 

One word with the weight of a thousand suns. Blinked, “Fair enough.”

 

Kaz said “Damn.”

 

Achban, “Yeah, damn. Abbot, this is about the thing. This is about the bananas. Abbot, you remember the banana boats?”

 

Nodded, “Hard as tack in reefer boxes.” First thing he remembered.

 

“That’s right, sharp eyes. I will call you up in case you’re needed. Kassian, you won’t be needed, unless anyone needs a coffee or a dick suck.”

 

“Ha ha,” Kaz’s laugh. Tried to roll with it, “Yeah, Ackie, that’s funny.”

 

Achban didn’t laugh back.

 

Straight shot up the coast to Fort Tequesta.

 

Fountain Head. Fort Tequesta’s Little Italy.

 

Fountain Head was condominiums, wall of white and sand blocking out the white sand beaches. Canals besieged by parking lots and an endless bevy of strip malls. Long boulevard, the state road, what started as Soosay in Vice ending where South Florida ended. Little Italy. Sure.

 

Pill Pharm on the corner of Redwood Boulevard next to a restaurant. Achban pointed, said “We’d have been meeting there, but we got word.”

 

“Word what?”

 

“We need fumigators.”

 

Rand Ocean Drive peeled off from the strip malls along the boulevard into another series of dense stores: Italian restaurants and mortgage loans and barbers.

 

Didn’t turn there.

 

Turned on the Greek tavern and Rand Realty. Said “We can’t use the front.”

 

Back alley between the stores on both the drive and the boulevard. Employee parking; row of parked Japanese SUVs interrupted by a Pfister, interrupted by bubblegum paint and dumpsters.

 

“3404,” Achban said. “Another Time Catering.”

 

Parked up.

 

Nobody else parked there.

 

Air conditioner planted by the door. Two floors, stairway leading up to a little balcony windows shielded by corrugated iron. Fifty-something man in plimsolls with his hands on the barrier, wiped his mouth with shirt, headed back in while the three got out.

 

Rear door.

 

Achban led.

 

Knocked three times.

 

Dark skin, Mediterranean: head like a pyramid, in a plaid hoodie, sandals and blue jeans, blossom bush of black widows peak hair. Fifties. Thumbed his philtrum and said “Achban?” Said it with a soft ‘-ch’.

 

Nodded.

 

“I needa’ do introductions?”

 

Nodded.

 

“Okay.”

 

Achban said “Abbot, Kassian. This is Perry Shells.”

 

Shells extended a hand. Kaz shook, Shells just said “Whaddya’ know?”

 

“Kaz is entourage. Abbot’s spoken to Prince Charming at the broom closet on Brown.”

 

“He spoken to Chazz?”

 

“First time talking to anyone in Florida.”

 

“Then I’m gonna need to introduce.”

 

Achban rubbed his hands together, then threw ‘em up. Sighed out a “Yeah.”

 

“C’mon, ‘yamo, c’mon.” Obligation, boredom.

 

Door opened.

 

Building in the row of strip malls was practically empty. Front wall was huge windows, both with venetian blinds, both with the blinds shut. Two guys keeping watch on the street peeking through the cracks. Shadow of a guy on the streetside sitting on a chair.

 

Stairway to the right through a door. Place halfway dusty, unvacuumed carpet, a lot of brown and shadow. Three guys to the left. Desk with a big leather office chair, three wooden seats in front. Dusty desk.

 

Guy at the desk. Bald, tall, built like a strongman. Grayed out complexion and hair receded, rimless eyeglasses. Thick neck. Thick neck had a stoma. Patched over with bandage resembling skin.

 

Avoided the three guys. One on the left was sitting. Realized it weren’t a chair - wheelchair. Hands on big rims.

 

Big guy at the desk was boss. Could tell. Only one with a real chair.

 

Put his hand to his throat. Electrolarynx croaking: “How’re we doing, motherf*ckers?”

 

Saw Kaz half-jump ‘cause he didn’t expect it.

 

Achban said “Long time, Chazz.”

 

“Was the city okay?”

 

“The city’s the city.”

 

“True. You got the f*cking munchkins over here. Specky and the cripple.”

 

Abbot cracked out “Meeting with the Loneliest Robot.”

 

Achban and Shells, they both shot glares.

 

Chazz grinned. “I should rip your f*cking head off, you f*cking mutt. Got some balls.”

 

Shells, “You be respectful, Specks.”

 

“Grow some f*cking balls, Perry, he’s just busting balls.”

 

“Am I doin’ this introduction or am I f*ckin’ doin’ it? C’mon.”

 

“Hurry the f*ck up about it.”

 

“Okay. Okay? Okay. So,” opened palm, “this is Abbot, and this is Kassian, friends of mine. Friends, this is Chazz Gags, he’s a friend of ours. Chazz, Abbot is Achban’s brother. Et f*ckin’ cetera. We’re all friends now.”

 

“Yeah, okay, Perry.”

 

“Fungool. I gotta go a bacc’ouse.”

 

Shooed him.

 

Abbot, “He really needa’ do the introductions?”

 

“You wanna discuss business with a made guy,” Achban explained, “you gotta be introduced.”

 

“What?”

 

Chazz, “What do you mean ‘what’?”

 

“What- I mean- I never did that, really.”

 

“You’re f*cking kidding me?”

 

“I mean–”

 

“I was told you met some guys with the Wrist–”

 

“Yeah, in Boot Street. Uh, before Roy, Glen and someone. Roy’s brother.”

 

Kaz’s eyes like dinner plates.

 

“Rudy’s guys?”

 

“Yeah, I played cards for him.”

 

“Then that’s a f*cking problem, Specky. Rudy Rubs never introduced you? Rudy’s capo, that’s a violation.”

 

“I mean, we didn’t discuss business. It weren’t a big deal. We just talked sandwiches and then Roy came.”

 

Achban went “Oh.”

 

“Sure, then. No problem.”

 

Abbot, “No?”

 

“If it was just sandwiches, yeah. This ain’t a f*cking deli, so that ain’t business.”

 

“Listen,” Achban sighed. “It’s okay. That coulda’ been wrong.”

 

“I’m sorry–”

 

“Don’t apologize. What the f*ck you talking about, you apologize?”

 

“It’s fine,” Achban said. “We’re gonna talk business. You wait with Legs and the others, I’ll call you when you’re needed.”

 

“Legs?”

 

Nudged his head.

 

Guy in the wheelchair.

 

Oh.

 

Nodded.

 

The three amigos.

 

Legs, Wheelchair, stood out more than anything. Middle thirties with a gray newsboy cap, little button on the top. Only guy in the room with any facial hair, not fat but had double-chin sag, horseshoe goatee on pale skin. Lézard polo, white with the little green gecko on the breast, polyester jacket and unironed slacks.

 

Abbot said “Hey.”

 

Legs offered a fistbump.

 

Nobody took.

 

His buddy, one of two, did it in Abbot’s stead. Laughed when he did it - much younger guy. Motosport racing jacket with a million car brands plastered. Said his name was Joe Blowout. Joe had the spiked out Alderney goombah hair, gelled up temple fade, baby soul patch under the lip. Stud earring, spray tan, tan chinos.

 

Joey Blowout. Legs was Legs. Third guy was Jasper the Geep.

 

“He ain’t gonna talk to you,” Joe.

 

Abbot said “Yeah?”

 

“He’s zip, he don’t talk to nobody.”

 

Jasper the Geep grunted “Aiutami Gesù, f*ckin’ idiot,” thick Brokerese, and walked right off.

 

Joe sneered. “He ain’t a zip.”

 

Two amigos. 

 

“Joe and Legs,” Kaz repeating it like it was all he could say.

 

Legs said “My name’s Joe, too, actually, but that ain’t gonna get airplay. Joe and Joey.”

 

Blowout, “That’s a punchline, bro, that’s a gag.”

 

Abbot, “We gotta do introductions?”

 

Scoffed. Legs, “No.”

 

“So that ain’t a rule?”

 

“That’s a rule,” Blowout said, “just with guys that got straightened out. You was with Shells, he’s got the button. Sally,” pointed at the shadow past the window, “Sally Tails, he’s got the button. They call him Sally Tails ‘cause he’s got the ponytail.”

 

“I can’t see it.”

 

“He’s across the f*ckin’ wall, f*ckin’ idiot.”

 

“He’s over there.”

 

“He’s behind a f*ckin’ wall.”

 

Kaz, “It’s glass there.”

 

“And blinds.”

 

Legs, “He’s just keeping watch. You guys parked out back, right?”

 

Blowout, “Someone woulda’ said if he parked out the side.”

 

“Yeah, whatever.” Grumpy bastard. “But yeah. No introductions.”

 

“It’s about the prinsickle.” Principle. “And incriminations.”

 

“We ain’t privy to nothin’ what’s goin’ on or what youse is meeting over.” Legs enunciated the Rs, said it hard. Real whiny voice. “Us, Jasper, the others. We just come over, we’re told to keep watch. In case there’s a van or some pork satellite or some sh*t.”

 

“We had to scan the car,” Abbot said. “Used some kind of f*cking metal detector thing.”

 

“You guys don’t gotta worry. We sweeped the place over three times or some sh*t. I had to wheel my useless ass over to the corner, I hold this thing–”

 

Blowout, “Like an electric paint roller.”

 

“--I hover it over the wall, and if it beeps, then we’re f*cked. But we don’t use this spot for nothing. We ain’t seen no feds outside about it.”

 

“You get scasciad’, you get kiboshed. That simple.”

 

Kaz, “Scasciad’?”

 

“Messy. Like, kay putz, like–.”

 

“I only know one guy,” Abbot said, “been popped in the past year. Port guy out in ‘Derney. Pastor. So unless you guys are real organized, I don’t know about no kiboshing.”

 

“You can’t make a move without gettin’ hot now. Nobody gets killed. You gotta cover your ass six spaces. You f*ck up and nobody eats your lunch, you still could get shelved, you still–”

 

“I know three, four guys,” Legs said. “That been whacked.”

 

“You obsess over f*ckin’ death.”

 

“I’m just saying, this one guy thing, there ain’t nothing to it.”

 

Kaz, “How’d you lose your legs?”

 

Beat.

 

Beat.

 

Beat.

 

Just blurted that out.

 

Legs blinked.

 

Took his hat off. Widows peak, shaved head with thin hair creeping out. “These coons. They ran up on some friends of ours in Tudor. This kid Angie, friend of my dead pal’s pop. He was maybe 60, they shot his head up like a firecracker.”

 

Blowout, “That ain’t how you lost the leg.”

 

“This was last year. Angie goes. He’s with the Wolves. Then this kid, the Chick. He runs book, but he ain’t got a button. Another shine wipes his ass out in the neighborhood. We think, what the f*ck, we goin’ to war with the moolie mob. Chick’s with the Messinas. Wolves go and send a pack out to Morgan Avenue, they wipe out two Albanians, they think this sh*t is over.”

 

Abbot, “You think this was blacks?”

 

Blowout, “Couldn’t be.”

 

“They shelved this kid. Samootz. He’s got dementia–”

 

“None of these guys is freakin’ kids.

 

“It’s a figure of expression. I seen war, my friend,” Legs said. “War’s everywhere. I grew up in Alderney, I was 10. I saw Ancelottis on my block, they roll the car up the street and try take out a couple guys at the social club. They was also Ancelotti. I don’t even think nobody died. Friend of mine, he gets his throat slit with a box cutter. He’s still kicking.”

 

Blowout, “Gomer?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“He’s alright.”

 

“That’s a different borgata. But everyone’s Italian. Italians shoot Italians.”

 

“You can’t talk.”

 

“I took buckshot. I lived. I can talk.”

 

“Thank you for your service,” Kaz said. “I mean, you know, that sh*t’s tough.”

 

“I was never in the f*cking army. This is my f*cking army.”

 

Blinked.

 

Abbot said “Oh.”

 

“I piss in a bag,” Legs went on. “But they piss in the wind. Every kid wants to be something. They get greedy. I saw kids I knew since I was a kid, I saw them get lit up, ‘cause we got greedy. Best friend. Bang. I lived, for whatever it’s worth. But I’m Legs, now.”

 

“Now?” Abbot asked.

 

“I answered your scimunìt’ buddy’s question. That’s how. Used to be Tunafish, now it’s Legs. Used to work fish market, then it was garbage.”

 

“That’s the life.”

 

“Sure, that’s the life. I don’t give a f*ck what you think my f*cking life is.”

 

“I know friends that died,” Kassian sighed. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Good for you.”

 

Kaz stuck tongue under lip.

 

Taken aback.

 

Abbot blinked.

 

Abbot glared. “You ain’t a soldier.”

 

Legs had a wound slashed in his soul. “Yeah?”

 

“What do you fight for? ‘You’re a soldier.’ You’re full of sh*t. What’s your cause?”

 

“I fought for freedom.”

 

Blowout went Ha! “Freedom?”

 

“Piss off. I fought for freedom, for myself. That’s America.”

 

“You take the oath, cuz, that oath is more important than the f*ckin’ America, the f*ckin’ family–”

 

“I never took it. I ain’t takin’ it now. I ain’t never getting made. Luca took it, look where it got him. We was gonna be our own–”

 

“It’s a job,” Abbot spat. “You do your job. But it isn’t service. You ain’t a civil servant. It's waste. We’re garbage men. You either got greedy or you didn’t.”

 

“You get exploited.”

 

“You’re here with me right now, with Chazz,” Blowout said.

 

“That’s the avenue I took. Maybe there is always a motherf*cker, but there shouldn’t be.”

 

“Then work at the f*cking garbage dump.”

 

Beat.

 

Long beat.

 

Kaz with eyes on him, flat lips.

 

Blowout just sneering. Sneer turned to chuckles, went “He got you.”

 

Legs said “Piss off.”

 

“He got you. You mopey prick. You and your wolves. Wolves and bats and donkeys and f*cking lions–”

 

“Look who the cat dragged in!” Wasn’t any of the four.

 

Door had opened.

 

Penny dropped.

 

“Si benedica, you beautiful mamaluke!”

 

“Buon natale. How was Christmas?”

 

Four men.

 

One leader.

 

Leader in a double breasted cream suit jacket, matching slacks. Monogrammed graphic Perseus pattern loafers. Coffee turtleneck. Coat with fur lapels, worn like a cloak.

 

One of the guys, a face Abbot recognized - big guido with a cleft chin, Johnny - he took it off.

 

Roy Zito looked Abbot dead into the eyes.

 

Abbot stared.

 

Couldn’t blink.

 

Roy did. Eyes seared, stood unshaken.

 

Beckoned with his finger, “Vieni qua! Abbot!”

 

Kassian blinking. Blink blink blinking.

 

The sky had collapsed on his head.

 

Steely blue eyes like nails getting hammered in with every blink, like a gunshot of infamy bleeding dread on the laminate flooring.

 

Abbot turned.

 

Abbot walked.

 

Kaz’s mouth tornado-hole, sucking air without exhaling.

 

Roy Zito dusted hand on sleeve, extended.

 

Abbot matched.

 

Roy grabbed the hand. Drew him in.

 

Breathed in his ear.

 

Breathed in his ear.

 

Whispered in his ear, and whispered real slow, “How are you doing, Abbot Cohen?”

 

Didn’t reply.

 

Let go. “Come un frate’, ain’t that right? Ain’t that right?”

 

Eyes on Abbot. Abbot said “Yes.”

 

Roy cackled. “Primo, hey, you go to the car,” tossed the keys, “Move it. You and Sally, you make sure that sh*t’s locked tight like nun twat. Yeah?”

 

Primo said “No problem sir,” said it in sing-song Italian. First generation - zip.

 

Abbot, “What happened to Ricecakes?”

 

“Oh,” Roy grinned, “wouldn’t you like to f*cking know, huh?”

 

Eyes were dead. Smile was wide.

 

Achban came over, “Hey, Roy, didn’t expect.”

 

“Important’s important. Chazz was in my stead, he don’t gotta be in my stead, ain’t that right, Chazz?”

 

Chazz went “Beats jerking off, f*cking around. You gotta keep busy.”

 

“Cosa nostra, that’s keepin’ busy, that’s hustlin’. That’s cosa nostra. Baby, you’re good, you just gotta–”

 

“Yeah, yeah, Roy–”

 

“Just me and Achban and Abbot.”

 

“Gotta clean my stoma anyways.”

 

“Hey,” Achban’s hand on the forearm, drifted off.

 

Roy said “What?”

 

Nudged head at Abbot, “He don’t gotta–”

 

“Nonsense! No! No, I wanna talk to him, I wanna see what he’s been doin’. And he’s got the familiarities. Yeah?”

 

Chazz headed upstairs, brushed past Achban, into the backroom with Joe Blowout following. Achban said “You sure?”

 

“Oh, what? You think there’s babania comin’ out his ears, you think he’s that f*cked? Your brother ain’t got a high opinion of you, Abbie.”

 

Abbot blinked. “Babania?”

 

“Pants. Brown. Scag.” Kept smiling. His eyes were dead.

 

He knew.

 

Achban avoided eyes.

 

“Oh, c’mon. Everybody’s got a thing. Where we are? It’s Vice City, everybody’s got somethin’, don’t worry about it. Oh!” Craned neck through two heads, “Kassian! Feygin!”

 

Kassian was a statue.

 

“Heard good things!” Lowered his voice, “Made his f*cking day, huh, Abbot?”

 

Abbot blinked.

 

“I’d say condolences, but I hear he don’t give a f*ck about his dad. You think he’d give you a prize if he knew, Abbie?”

 

Blinked.

 

“Knew what?” Abbot said. Stone cold. Hardly a question.

 

Roy smiled. “We gotta sit down. Johnny, gagootz, you good keepin’ an ear open?”

 

Big Johnny said “Sure.”

 

“Good. ‘Yamo! C’mon, we gotta talk.”

 

Desk. Office chair.

 

Johnny stood aside while Roy took his place on a leather throne.

 

Three seats. Abbot and Achban took two.

 

“Ricecakes,” said Roy, “he’s a good kid. Little bit retarded, though. Used to sell knockoff Fourchette handbags out in Dukes. His uncle, he’s a capo with the Lupisellas.”

 

“I ain’t met him,” Achban said. “The Lupisella thing, that a conflict of interest?”

 

“It was kosher. He was gonna get his block wiped over some disrespect, I thought ‘this kid’s crazy’, so I straightened it out since he’s f*ckin’ on Mark Lupisella’s daughter. He would be here. But the f*ckin’ moron, he set some pizza guy’s Benefactor on fire in Rambler Beach last month. Because he wouldn’t pay 400 bucks. I smack the kid in the mouth, I go ‘are you f*ckin’ stupid?’ Four hundred dollars?”

 

“He could do ten years,” Johnny said.

 

“He could. And for what? Him and his jackoff buddy - Sabato Saputo, they call him Smarty because he’s a Grade-A retard - Smarty set himself on fire, set his jeans on fire. They caught him on the security camera.”

 

“He paid up five grand, the pizza guy.”

 

“Menzamenz’. He could do ten years over five grand. I oughta’ kill him. And then he f*cking texted the guy. I go, ‘you f*cking texted?’ But yeah, that’s Ricecakes.”

 

Abbot’s finger drifted. Pointed back at Achban, to Roy. “You two know each other?”

 

Roy nodded.

 

Abbot blinked.

 

Achban said “Yeah.”

 

Blinked.

 

Roy, “You didn’t know?”

 

“I asked,” Abbot said, “at the time. I told you, about my brother.”

 

“I know. I just didn’t know, y’know, that you were a Cohen Cohen.”

 

Achban, “He told me.”

 

“Yeah. Me and Achban, we go back. Achban the Israeli.”

 

Johnny, “Achban the Israeli.”

 

“Achban the Israeli. He sold ecstasy by the truckload. Down here, he sold to Sonny.”

 

Achban’s brows popped, sighed, “Son of a bitch.”

 

“He ain’t said nothin’, though. Hey, if Sonny Bottino, if the ‘last gangster’ or what-he-says, if he snitched on Achban, hey-ho. But you kept him–”

 

“I kept him in liquor while he was ducking police.”

 

“He did. Out in San Andreas, Sonny was in the desert, Achban got him the molly.”

 

Sniffed. “I did.”

 

“Over a dead stripper. Sonny was a maestro. He never liked me, but I admire the craft. Him and two guys: telescopic baton, beat her up, get the wire and strangle her so bad he basically slits her throat. Knife in the stomach while she’s got the piano wire on, make her hurt. I think it’s disgusting, but hey, he had a technique.”

 

“Maybe so.”

 

“He loved it.”

 

“I know.”

 

“But hey. Abbot knows, sometimes you just gotta do it. Right?” Dead eyes.

 

Abbot blinked. “Right.”

 

“Right! My restaurant is a f*cking joke right now.”

 

“I heard,” Achban said. “Little bit.”

 

“It’s a beautiful place. You should see it, Abbot. Up in Pozo Roca. I told you.”

 

Abbot nodded.

 

“What did I say I was gonna name it, Abbot?”

 

Sighed. “Zito’s.”

 

Grinned. “That’s it! No matter who I give f*cking cash to. No matter who I talk to. No liquor license. No liquor license. I’m losing my mind. They got a hardon like a jackhammer. I was talking to Ali Mac, though, he says he can save it.”

 

“How’s he doing?”

 

“Good, Achban, real good. He says I go in as a silent partner, I go on-the-book as a maître d’, I can still do everything. Just call it Ali Mac’s By-the-Sea. I love that name.”

 

“Not as good as Zito’s.”

 

“Couldn’t be. No. Ali Mac wants to move to Louisville.”

 

“Where? Kentucky?”

 

“Yeah. He’s got the horses in East Island already. Maybe even open a place over there. And then, who knows, money on the street.”

 

“It’s an idea.”

 

Abbot blinked.

 

Abbot blinked.

 

Roy met his eyes. “Yeah?”

 

“Why are you here?”

 

Grinned. “Dry cleaner makes good money. But I want to expand.”

 

“No.”

 

“No?”

 

“Why are you here?”

 

“I got the business. It’s important. How many years you spend in school again, Abbot?”

 

Blinked. “What?”

 

“Prison.”

 

Blinked. “I got my GED.”

 

“Haaa! Funny!” Dead eyes. “Your best friend, Kenny Petrovich. He ain’t done a year. Even one inside.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Achban, “He ever flown you on a private jet, Abbot? You met Vikentiy Rabinovich with him?”

 

Blinked. Didn’t know who that was. “Whatever.”

 

“I told you,” Roy said. “I don’t trust nobody never done no years. But that’s Italians. Not this whole thing. Achban ain’t done time. Not really. And I love him. Come un frate’, right?”

 

“Right,” Achban smiled.

 

“What I told you was gonna happen, Abbot. The thing. We’re expeditin’ it. That’s speedin’ it up. You met our friends at the spa. What’d you tell Chazz, Achban?”

 

“I said the boat’s in Caucedo right now.”

 

“We gotta keep our eyes peeled. You’re smart, Abbot, you always keep your eyes peeled. Right?”

 

Abbot blinked.

 

“It’s in the DR,” Achban muttered. “Just back in from Colombia. And we gotta unload here before Liberty. It was due April. Now it’s hitting LC by mid-February. We’re gonna need hands on deck, and we gotta split the load at Viceport. Too much to take everything to LC. Brown. White. Luxury cars. Everything.”

 

Achban’s phone buzzing.

 

Achban picked up.

 

Held the display - Mack. Maksim.

 

Roy smiled. “I’ll explain the rest, answer any questions he wanna ax’.”

 

Achban said “Thank you.”

 

“Tell him I said howdy-hi.”

 

Nodded.

 

Achban stood.

 

Walked off.

 

Back door shut.

 

“Howdy-hi,” Johnny chuckled.

 

“Why not? Hey. Abbot, hey.”

 

Abbot blinked.

 

“Abbooot. Hey.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“You got your eyes peeled, right?”

 

Abbot blinked. “I don’t judge you.”

 

“How is he?”

 

Blinked.

 

Roy’s eyes on Kassian.

 

“Fine,” Abbot said.

 

“I got someone down here,” Roy sang. “Skinny. Tight. You can run your fingers over the stomach, you can feel the washboard.”

 

“What do you want from me?”

 

“I don’t know.” Swallowed. “I was with Tony–”

 

Johnny, “Tony the C*nt?”

 

“Johnny, ears closed.” Waited a second, Johnny looked off. “Tony Tony. At Maisonette. His boyfriend called the guy brought the champagne over a n*gger. Jumped up bodybuilder from Arizona. I cracked the bottle over his face, broke his f*cking nose.”

 

Abbot blinked.

 

“He was gonna sue.”

 

“You think I’m gonna sue?”

 

“I don’t know. But I did nice things, I thought I was owed them back. I thought too highly.”

 

“I wouldn’t, Roy.”

 

“I don’t know.” Smiled. “I’m Julius Caesar, Abbot. Jon, Don Gravelli, he was my Nicomedes. You? You ain’t Hierocles. And you ain’t making me Elagabalus. You rode a chariot and that is where it ends.”

 

Abbot blinked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

“One thousand years. In one thousand years, I’ll still be king.” He meant every word. “Every word I said, it ain’t repeated.”

 

“I won’t.”

 

Nodded. “Maybe. The babania down here good? Better than Liberty?”

 

Blinked. “They sell it in fingers. Not stamped bags.”

 

And Roy smiled. “It’s all our stuff, anyways.”

 

Roy stood.

 

The room’s eyes locked on him.

 

“I’m gonna head off! Toofer, vangopp’, get Chazz down for Achban.”

 

One of the Italians got away from the windows, headed up the stairs.

 

Roy’s voice a regal whisper. “I wouldn’t have missed you for the world, Abbot.”

 

Roy said goodbye.

 

Roy left. Marched on with Johnny in tow.

 

The door shut.

 

Eyes lingered through the sunbaked windows, dust dancing through wet eyes.

 

Abbot couldn’t breathe.

 

The Glossary

Vice City Map

Edited June 30, 2022 by slimeball supreme

[slimeball supreme]

Saddled Wolves

 

The car idled.

 

Hey, hey, hey

Ba-dee-ya, say, do you remember?

Ba-dee-ya, dancing in September

Ba-dee-ya, never was a cloudy day

 

Ice white Karin Asterope on Adonijah Place lingered. Ski gloves gripped, breaths held, windows up. Engine tick-tick-ticked.

 

Eyes didn’t move.

 

2:48 AM.

 

The mechanic doors were open. Eyes left - eyes south. Shuttered daycare windows and cube projects rightward, northward. Garbage bags on snow, amber street light stare painting white gold.

 

All wore ski gloves.

 

Headlights were off.

 

Old man’s eyes flickered. Fingers stretched, repositioned, snapped back to the wheel. Eyes fixated. Sweatsuits.

 

No features.

 

Surgical masks plugged balaclava mouth-holes. Sober blues, car lights off, black skis and blacked out windows. Sunglasses in pale night.

 

No eyes.

 

Now December

Found the love we shared in September

Only blue talk and love

Remember

True love we share today

 

Kip inhaled.

 

Kip exhaled.

 

Kip rear-right. Scott rear-left. Carmelo passenger. Peanut, driver-man with liver spots on exposed wrists, flexed and focused on the mechanic doors.

 

Dan the Spanner Man. Sideways-parked burgundy Bravado SUV with cancer ribbon stickers on the trunk window.

 

Shadows on pale fluorescent white on the shoveled snow. Four.

 

Lanky black kid led ahead. Steel color goose jacket, thick brows halfway up the forehead.

 

Gravel-growl, Scott said “Tango.”

 

Carmelo said “You sure?”

 

“I don’t forget no eyes.”

 

Brows stood blank-faced with hands in jacket pockets, eyes drilling into nothing. Didn’t dart. Second shadow followed, kinky box braided hair, curved-brim snapback and army green parka.

 

Beefy old black men. One with hair: a lot of hair, frazzed afro and Eris hoodie. Older man: standing 5’6, shorter than the others, paunchy, balding. A million black moles on his face amongst acne scars. Dermatosis papulosa nigra, lit up on the stage. Kenton Beard.

 

Scott pointed. “That’s them.”

 

Kip nodded.

 

Rear-left opened first.

 

“Remember,” Peanut went. “Use the claw.”

 

No-brand velcro sneakers hit road.

 

Afro went back in the mechanic’s.

 

Troupe of three headed past the food co-op. Co-op between Dan the Spanner Man and the second auto parts place on the street. Torn-up green canopy awnings.

 

Scott crossed the street.

 

Right-side doors opened.

 

The three passed the auto parts. Turned onto Kiley Avenue. Crossed through the maze of parked Eighties jap-crap sedans, gunmetals and reds.

 

Asterope backed out.

 

They didn’t talk.

 

Footsteps on sidewalk snow.

 

White painted gold.

 

Scott ran.

 

Head turned.

 

Tango.

 

Snap.

 

Claw hammer cracked Andre’s skull. Right on the temple, heard it cracker-crack like cookie snapping and the kid slammed down like a fallen tree.

 

Back-swiped the hammer. Connected with Kenton’s forehead. Didn’t have time to think. Stumbled, fell back into his nephew. Delroy half had to dodge, had to peel his uncle off himself. Screamed. 

 

Primal, adolescent scream.

 

Kip and Carmelo ran.

 

Hammers out. Ski gloves clenching.

 

Kenton tried disarming, tried rushing. Scrambled on his feet with his head pounding and then charged. 

 

Crack. Carmelo hit the knee.

 

Crack. Kip hit the teeth.

 

Snap. Wet snap as teeth flew, as hot blood flickered out agonized jaws as- snap, as the claw dug into the bottom row of teeth, as Kip pressed a strong palm on the chest and pulled down as hard as he could.

 

Dentistry. Cracked louder than a gunshot, eyes bulged and the man fell to the ground.

 

Barrel-chest Scott took advantage of Andre on his knees, pushed his foot on his back and slammed the claw as hard as he could.

 

The parietal bone split, popped, soft as butter. Lanky Andre collapsed, face down, claw dug in, claw mashed, claw mashed, claw mashed. Top of the skull, back of the skull, turned brains into soup, blood broth froth.

 

He was dead. Spasmed, dead.

 

Others weren’t.

 

Delroy ran - tried to run. Collar of the parka grabbed and the boy got tossed, stumbled onto the pavement cursing and got jumped. Kip worked Kenton’s knees, turned them into slurry, wanted them breathing pain instead of oxygen, wanted them wishing they were dead.

 

Scott, Carmelo. Worked on the nephew, wet crackles as the skin tore.

 

Stoop door opened.

 

Stoop door closed.

 

“Wrap it up!”

 

Hammers got sheathed. Sweatsuit pockets.

 

Guns. Pre-loaded .22 pocket pistols, palm-sized.

 

Mouth.

 

Kenton’s jaw half-unhinged, Kenton half screaming. Gurgle-spit tooth gagging coughing out black bile.

 

Scott dug the gun into Delroy’s maw.

 

Fired.

 

Fired.

 

Bullets bounced around in the boy’s brain, didn’t exit, turned his twisted-up face to snow slush. Unloaded two more in the forehead.

 

Children screaming two floors up.

 

Kenton gurgling.

 

Kip crouched.

 

Lodged the gun into his jaw.

 

Almost eye contact. But weren’t no features to see. Eye-holes glass, mouth-hole blue.

 

Monster stared. Soul was eaten.

 

Kenton bit down.

 

Weren’t no teeth to bite.

 

Fired.

 

Fired.

 

Fired.

 

Echo shots of insurance blasts into Andre’s open cranial cavity. Guns clacking, dropped in the gutter. Kenton’s eyes distended, hell red, swollen-popped skull while the soup poured out his nose.

 

Scratched out serial numbers gleaming off the lights.

 

Gun hit the ground.

 

Asterope idling curbside.

 

Kip slammed the door.

 

***

 

Latrell was awake.

 

Lying on the sofa-bed. Extended futon in the living room, half-wrapped in scratch blanket made out the roughest material you could think. Sandpaper duvet.

 

Wasn’t tired.

 

Eyelids were heavy.

 

Had to shave that morning. Head-stubble growing out enough you could part the hairs with your finger. Stumbled into cramped bathroom with lime-dead tiles and crystalized windows shining overcast.

 

Phil let him use his disposable razors. Had a big red Excelsior one only Phil could use, curled stray strands stuck between blades. Phil shaved, regular, but the five-o’clock grew back fast and grew back angry. Had said a big guy, Big Al - explained it like Latrell hadn’t seen his name on a whiteboard in an FIB safehouse - slapped him in the face for coming in with a beard. Wasn’t a beard, he said, it was a five o’clock shadow, and Latrell said it was bullsh*t he could get sonned out like that.

 

But nothing new.

 

Shaving cream muck caked all over the scalp. Except the scar.

 

Hurt to shave around it.

 

Had slept after.

 

Woke now.

 

The eggs in Phil’s fridge had gone bad. Broke them all and hadn’t realized.

 

Breakfast was gonna be TV dinner. “I don’t gamble,” Phil said. “I get ten or twenty I go to the grocery store, I get ten or twenty, ‘cause you gotta be safe, and see, look whatta’ happened, we was safe.”

 

TV dinner was carved turkey. He’d offered fried chicken, he’d offered spicy fried chicken, he’d offered beer battered chicken. Latrell made the decision, and Phil rose.

 

“You got the white turkey,” he recited. “Okay. It’s white meat turkey, okay, you got the mash- the creamy mashed potato, how ‘bout that, you got- you got the seasoned stuffing. I don’t know what it’s seasoned with.”

 

“It’s okay.”

 

“It’s good. It’s good. Mixed vegetables. And the vegetables are… okay, carrageenan. Oh, no. It says there right here. It says corn, it says green beans - and they’re cut - and you got, uh… you got carrots. And there’s an apple cranberry dessert. And that’s got–”

 

“Sure.”

 

“Yeah? How ‘bout that. Yeah, okay.”

 

Had a fourteen inch CRT TV on a folding table with coffee stains. Had a standup DVD - Chance Kindly: Thank You, Mr. Shapiro - America’s dad in a cardigan and sweater vest. ‘As a young man, Chance Kindly was a tyke who’d rather play than do his homework.’

 

Phil put his Salisbury steak in the microwave first. “They would laugh anyone out of the courtroom who’d say he raped nobody.”

 

“True.”

 

“I am telling you, Latrell. I done studied some laws a couple times. That case is sealed, kid. And he couldn’t do it anyways. None of the- I mean, you know- I mean, I don’t even needa’ get into it.”

 

“Yeah, son, it’s open and shut.”

 

“I ain’t a gambling man.”

 

“You said that.”

 

“So I know a sure thing. I would bet my life on it. He’s black, too, so what does that say about the society.” Microwave beeped. Hummed. Phil walked to the kitchen counter, slumped onto his elbows by an open laptop, screen dead. “And the DVD, I mean, it’s got a message to it.”

 

“What message?”

 

“‘Cause when he was a kid he’d f*ck around. But he got good grades. And- and- and you know, you know–”

 

“No?”

 

“You show the potential.”

 

“Yeah.” Latrell reached to the foldout table, reached out to the cigarette pack laying facedown brandless. Didn’t want to smoke. Flipped it over, so he could see the logo.

 

“I got two rules. And these is pro tips, you want to make it. Just from my experience. Okay? Just from it.”

 

Latrell nodded. Hadn’t met his eyes yet. Just stared at the logo.

 

“You don’t gamble. And you do not gamble. That’s it.”

 

Met Phil’s eyes.

 

“I never bet, my whole f*ckin’ life,” he said, “I never bet once. I only do sure things. Every one of these wiseguys, they take chances, okay? They take chances.”

 

Latrell smirked, “It’s simple math, right?”

 

“HAHAHA!” Phil laughed so hard he choked. Grabbed at his chest, wheezed, laptop screen flickered to desktop and then he slammed the thing shut with a free hand. “HOLY F*CK!”

 

It wasn’t that funny. “Yeah?”

 

“Hahaha!”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“That was a good one. Haha! He got riled the f*ck up, Titus, that r*tard. That little son of a bastard r*tard. Coke fiend r*tard piece of sh*t.”

 

“He get my name wrong too, son, he calls me Laquell n’ sh*t.”

 

“His dad’s a bastard. And in the literal way, he’s a bastard. His father Carmine, his father Carmine- I swea’ to, I swea’ to Mary, Loopy Mark don’t look nothin’ like his father Carmine. And he got half-adopted by his uncle Vinny Bo, ‘cause his uncle Vinny Bo beat Carmine to death.”

 

Blinked. “Huh.”

 

“You know that?”

 

Barely followed what he said. “I ain’t seen it online.”

 

“Which part?”

 

“That he’s a bastard.”

 

Phil grinned, lifted a finger, put it to his lips and went “Shhh. You ain’t gone the right places. He’s a son born outta’ wedlock. And Titus was, too. Mark’s not fit to be a boss, partly ‘cause a’ the retardation. He’s like Buck Fifty.”

 

Blinked.

 

Blinked.

 

Latrell, “You know Buck Fifty?”

 

Buck Fifty - Quantell Blount. Founded the Brotherhood of Ballas on Astors Island in the middle-Nineties, sharing a cell with The President, who founded the MOB. Swore them in as the second set of Bobby P. The first set were the A.9 Ballas, the A.9’s in East Liberty were a subset of that set.

 

That was a long time ago.

 

That name meant nothing now. “‘Cause he was a snitch,” Phil croaked, finished Latrell’s sentence before he could think the words. “He wasn’t fit to lead, right? Your Ballas. He started it but he weren’t fit to keep goin’. Nobody respects Mark Lupisella. His uncle, absolutely. Him, no.”

 

Nodded. Slow. “Yeah,” Latrell muttered.

 

“And look what that kinda’ leadership- I mean, look what it gives. You got Frankie, who’s divorced, who’s a gambler. Reuben, gambler. Titus, he cokes out. Rodney, he cokes out, he’s an molly guy–”

 

“Yo, wait.”

 

“Wha’?”

 

“Frankie’s divorced?”

 

“No. Once. Haha, I’ll tell you a story.”

 

“You said he had the, uh, the-f*ck, that Cuban bitch he was on. And that was his mistress, b, so he was cheatin’. That why?”

 

The microwave beeped. “He married the whore.”

 

“What?”

 

Phil turned, bent down below view. “He married the Cuban broad. Half the reason he divorced- half the reason he divorced the bitch, was she stabbed him in the hand with the fork. I tell you that story?”

 

Squinted. “You ain’t finish it.”

 

TV dinner slapped on the counter. “I thought I did?”

 

Shrugged. Latrell snatched the cigarettes.

 

“He divorced her,” Phil went, “and then, fast as he could, he got the Cuban broad and he proposed to her. And they had the honeymoon first, and we all had our dicks in our hands while he was in Florida with her, and then he was back and we was back to you guys.”

 

Blinked. “What do you- wait. Huh?”

 

“He got married in August.”

 

Beat.

 

Phil started the microwave with the turkey.

 

“So he got married before I met you niggas?”

 

“He was married maybe, f*ck, maybe I’dunno, maybe a week or somethin’ before you met us, maybe.”

 

“He didn’t tell me sh*t.”

 

“He don’t tell you sh*t. He don’t tell me sh*t. He don’t talk no family or nothin’. I’ll tell you what he told us about. He told us what he did with Reuben to get the Cuban broad’s wedding.”

 

“They have it at a bread line?”

 

“Hahaha! That’s a good one. She’s a Cuban.”

 

“Castro at the wedding ‘n sh*t. Was it a communist wedding? Did you go?”

 

“No.”

 

“That’s too bad, they woulda’ had to share the gifts.”

 

Blinked.

 

Smile kept getting wide. 

 

Phil beamed, “That’s the funniest f*cking sh*t I ever heard.” He meant it.

 

Latrell beamed back, flicked the lighter.

 

“Can I use that joke?”

 

“For real?”

 

“Yeah, Latrell, can I? That’s genius.”

 

“Go ahead.”

 

“That’s ace. That’s gonna be burned in my f*ckin’ head. But I was saying–”

 

“Tell the story, son.”

 

“Yeah. Frankie kept braggin’ he got a discount on the reception. 95% off. And he got it the way he loves gettin’ things the most, and that’s embarrassing and abusing some motherf*cker. The guy who owns the restaurant is a friend of his,” that meant he was a mob associate, “and his ex-wife is bangin’ some guy.”

 

“So the ex-wife of the restaurant owner?”

 

“Sure. We actually ain’t even far from his place, it’s off State Route 27.”

 

“Hey, sh*t’s ironic.”

 

“Right? So the ex is banging some guy, he was on reality TV. Gold Diggers of Liberty City, I think.”

 

“Dead ironic.”

 

“Frankie woulda’ done all this anyway, but he was all screwed from the gambling. That’s why you shouldn’t. LOB finals, he put it all on the Heretics.”

 

Latrell bit his lip. “Yeah. Ha.”

 

“Y’know, I don’t loan money. That’s another rule. Don’t loan money. Only loan it out, never loan it from nobody. And wiseguys, when they borrow money from you, they always welch. Frankie always welches. Me, I never–”

 

“How’d he embarrass the dude, Philly?”

 

Beep. Microwave stopped humming. “Gonna have mine later, gotta go to the store. I like it cold, anyways. But, uh. Yeah. Frankie and Reuben abused this guy. They had a slapjack–”

 

“A what? A slapjack?”

 

“Leather blackjack. Like a beaver tail. You put it on your belt, slap the hell out someone with it. I think Reuben used his actual belt. And they wipe this kid out in a parking lot. Like a schoolboy. And for that, he gets 350 people in the restaurant for, what, six bucks.”

 

“Damn. That many?”

 

“That many.”

 

“All made-ass wiseguy dudes, and you weren’t even invited.”

 

“I was,” Phil said. “I was just sick.”

 

Beat.

 

“With what?” Latrell asked.

 

Beat.

 

“I have eczema.” Felt around his neck, around his mouth, “I had a bad outbreak.”

 

Cigarette was a stub in Latrell’s mouth.

 

TV dinner was on the counter.

 

“I’m gonna go get some stuff an’ things like that a’ that sorta’ natures,” Phil said. “You good with Opie?”

 

Nodded.

 

“I won’t lock the door.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Okay.” Looked to the TV, “Kindly’s good, right?”

 

“He is.”

 

“How ‘bout that. Okay.” Sniffed. “Okay.”
 

Cigarette burned.

 

Ash tray, tip pressed down. Thumb on the top. Pushed. Squashed the thing into nothing.

 

Phil’s Solair left the driveway.

 

Dog barked. Dog bark-bark-barked until it left.

 

Debonaire pack clack.

 

Got up.

 

Slipped another stick out the pack - another soldier in tobacco platoon - lit with disposable lighter and kept the Debonaires clutched like prosthesis. Undershirt and underwear, nicotine fog as Chance Kindly riffed.

 

“You could tell it in his spirit! The way he turned to the board, and how excited he was, to point to a triangle, and talk for two hours!”

 

Buck Fifty.

 

In his head, Buck Fifty. Ballas. Your Ballas. Over and over and over again. Your Ballas, your Ballas.

 

Cigarette ashed on the carpet.

 

How’d he know that?

 

Exhaled.

 

Nicotine fog coalesced.

 

Who the hell did he think he was?

 

Rolled tongue over tooth with the cigarette between parted fingers.

 

Steam stopped off the plastic wrap sky atop TV dinner turkey. On the counter.

 

Grabbed it. Hard.

 

Pulled away a moment, f*cking hot. Burned his thumb.

 

Sucked on it.

 

Cigarette on top of the laptop.

 

Opened the trash.

 

Threw the food down in the lining with the beer cans and kicked the thing shut.

 

Sucking his thumb, free hand grabbing the cigarette, thing brushing–

 

Stopped.

 

Thought.

 

Sidled up to the stool at the counter. Hacked a cough a moment, black spittle, felt at his throat.

 

Opened up the computer.

 

Phil Donovan had no password.

 

Desktop.

 

Default background. Facade logo faded into a glittering night sky, green-yellow aurora borealis splitting the screen diagonally.

 

Internet. Pictures folder. Solitaire. Folder titled ‘Movies’.

 

Clicked.

 

It was just pictures of movie posters.

 

Clicked off.

 

Pictures.

 

Photos of photos. Masked by flared lights from camera flash, picture book of family photos. Phil clear as day - various ages, all him. Feathery, invisible eyebrows in every one. 

 

Young Phil with sunglasses, white t-shirt near the Firefly Island boardwalk. Outside a place called Big Bad Al’s, colorful joint with faded tin signs, next to Johnson’s Famous with a million people in the outdoor seating. Potato knishes with a woman. Little girl in a pink dress, Phil with a beer holding the kid on his shoulders.

 

Wife and kid. Mid-or-late Nineties. JPEGs titled ‘aileen1’, ‘aileen2’. A lot of photos named Aileen.

 

A few pictures of a little boy. Father; ginger, ruddy, pinched face. Early, maybe mid-Eighties. Photo titled ‘stickball’ with East Liberty written in the corner in fat black marker, devilish little sneer on the ginger’s face teeing off with a broom handle. Little boy holding the ruddy man’s hand in front of the Monoglobe.

 

Gilroy Donovan. No pictures of his mother.

 

Clicked off.

 

Internet browser.

 

Four tabs.

 

Patriot 500. In Florida on the 21st of February, on a tab on the website saying Plan Your Visit. Phil didn’t seem like a stock car guy.

 

Eyefind in the second tab. Default search engine. Of course. Phil was an old f*cker, of course he used f*cking Eyefind. Not surprising.

 

Checked search history.

 

 

Breath caught in his throat.

 

A9 Ballas.
 

Ballas.

 

Liberty City Ballas.

 

Purple Plug.

 

Kwame Pruitt.

 

Next tab.

 

Department of Justice. Southern District of Liberty.

 

15 Members of East Liberty Drug Trafficking Organization Charged with Narcotics and Firearms Offenses | USAO - EDL

 

FIB website.

 

Twelve Members of Ballas Street Gang Indicted on Racketeering, Drug Distribution, Firearms Charges, Conspiracy

 

Latrell wanted to kill Phil.

 

Back arrow.

 

Humiliation.

 

 

That was 2010.

 

Remembered US Marshals hitting the Milden Houses like it was Fallujah. Names Latrell hadn’t thought about since - the Golden brothers. Chuckie and Bebo; those two were Dominican, not Ballas, distributors. Like Kenton. Chuckie ducked the charge and got busted in Las Venturas. Latrell got rounded up alone. Dozen guys got rounded up together and did the perp walk.

 

Kwame got forty years. Latrell copped two on a plea. Did fourteen months and spent the rest on parole. Same as Teflon. Slip got four. Knot plead guilty, got three. Everyone else, ten to twenty years. It was a weak case. Predicates rolled everyone up. Went on to arrest maybe eighty more kids up from Bohan all the way over to Alderney.

 

Knew Gumbo had got himself stabbed on Astors Island.

 

Knew they’d slapped Pop Butta, Jon Stax, and Tony Mike with another 20 for murder conspiracy.

 

Knew it was the most humiliating time of his f*cking life.

 

Latrell got prison for Balla screwups. Not Latrell screwups. Because of that, Latrell was a felon. Because of that, he had his name done up as Purple Plug. Infantile pig bullsh*t.

 

Phil got the drop on him.

 

Bastard.

 

Little prick.

 

Didn’t have the f*cking right.

 

Two could play at that game.

 

 

Had Duplexed him once before.

 

Found little. Dubious YourDeadFamily historical records. A couple guys with the same name: locksmith, lawyer, guy in Missouri who killed his cousin. Didn’t go further.

 

Well, screw you. ‘Latrell Palmer Ballas’.

 

 

Came back a little better.

 

 

Born 1972. Prosecuted in 2001, did eight years on a ten year sentence. United States v. Phillip Donovan. Assaults. Racketeering conspiracy. Part of a bust of a couple dozen Lupisellas, including the family administration. A lot of cases dropped - Phil got unlucky. Associated with Horace ‘Ace’ Hall and Mark Volpe - Messinas. Photo with Frankie Mazza and a babyfaced tank named Jimmy Love, real name Vincent Tuttobene. Phil in a black LS Pounders letterman.

 

Two-bit, dollar store hoodlum. Father was a Badfellas dropout. Boy sold his fists for a living.

 

Thought.

 

 

A few dozen news articles.

 

Omnipedia. ‘List of Lupisella crime family mobsters’.

 

Had viewed this before.

 

Francesco Mazza (born 1969) is a soldier in the Lupisella crime family and son of caporegime Samuel ‘Samuzzo’ Mazza. He and his brother Gianfelice Mazza are members of the Lupisella Broker faction. Mazza started his criminal career in the Imbroglio Boys recruitment gang. In 1994, Mazza was arrested for assaulting a loan sharking victim. He was found guilty of assault in aid of racketeering and sentenced to 96 months in prison. He was released from prison in 2004. In 2006, Mazza and associate Reuben Procida were made into the Lupisella crime family by Mark Lupisella, Fabio Inferiore, and other members of the family administration.

 

Ctrl+F. ‘Dennis Mondello’.

 

Dennis Mondello is an associate of the Broker faction. On December 24, 2009, Mondello and Vincent Tuttobene were charged with grand larceny and narcotics (marijuana, prescribed medication) charges. On March 13, 2010, Mondello was captured in the home of his girlfriend in New Vivon, Liberty. He is currently in prison with a projected release date of August 15, 2026.

 

Bit his lip.

 

Guess Shane was right.

 

Thought.

 

 

A Liberty Tree article about the ‘barbecue patrol’, responders to summertime disturbances around parks during cookouts. 

 

A list of disciplinary trials. As much as you could see with Liberty Civil Rights Law § 50-a blocking most results.

 

LCPD civilian complaint review board.

 

Shane DeCanio made 250k a year.

 

How?

 

He was a Third Grade Detective. Organized Crime Bureau. Member of the Patrolmen’s Benevolent Association.

 

 

85,000 dollars.

 

That didn’t make any sense.

 

Went back.

 

Age 39. Dukes-based. Allegations: abuse of authority, abuse of authority, abuse of authority. Property damage. Bribery. Physical force. Brutality. Offensive language. Sexual misconduct.

 

63 visible allegations. Average of at least three complaints a year. Almost every single one - exonerated. Three settlements.

 

Stopped.

 

 

Third Grade Detective. 79 allegations. Innumerable inappropriate uses of force. Also a PBA member.

 

An article from 2013; entitled 'Dukes LCPD detective sued over lurid and improper conduct'. A picture of him taking the trash out in his skivvies. The case ended with him exonerated.

 

Every single complaint, he was exonerated.

 

 

Third Grade Detective. PBA member. 224k a year. 67 allegations. Two settlements, one forfeiture of vacation days, the rest exonerated.

 

They were all getting paid too much, all had complaints through the roof. All of them always got off. Internal Affairs investigations like water on a duck’s back.

 

Thought.

 

 

Nothing.

 

They’d all said Disruption Team like it was an official thing.

 

The DT wasn’t official. None of them were ever a part of the same precinct. Only DeCanio was in Organized Crime. Different units, precincts, boroughs.

 

All in the same ‘station’ outside of jurisdiction, in the East Island suburbs. Where they disrupt.

 

Latrell blinked.

 

They’d have probably killed him if he didn’t comply in the first place.

 

Self-satisfied smirk.

 

He did the right thing.

 

As per.

 

Opie barked.

 

Victory lap. 

 

Since Phil had been so interested in Kwame.

 

You wanna background check Kwame?

 

How about the Badfellas dropout?

 

 

Picture of him. Ginger, ruddy, pinched face. Like if a pumpkin hit middle age. Muddy monochrome mugshots of him gaptooth grinning, holding the booking ID placard.

 

Birth date 1956.

 

Squinted.

 

1956?

 

Phil born 1972.

 

Did the math.

 

He had his son when he was 16.

 

“Huh.”

 

Had his own Omnipedia page.

 

 

‘This article needs additional citations for verification.’ Good sign. ‘This article’s tone or style may not reflect the encyclopedic tone used on Omnipedia.’ Great sign.

 

Block paragraphs. Relatively brief - four of them - but those four were long. Ripped from one or two books, both citations having ISBNs.

 

All rather simple.

 

Gilroy Donovan. Peripheral member of the Gnecco Crew - the Badfellas guys, Frankie’s guys - out of Dukes and East Liberty. Truck hijacker. Bagman, courier, emissary. Given a grocery list of equipment for the airport heist in ‘78 and didn’t participate in the real thing. Maybe helped whacking the crew members after. Liaison, heroin trafficker, and pitbull for various crooks after Polish Rob snitched on Hairy Al Gnecco. Envoy for Benny Jiff, Mel Skiv, Joe Mundy, Harry Hall.

 

Died in ‘86. Died gruesome. Kidnapped a made guy with a crew of junkies.

 

The character John ‘Johnny Jukebox’ Bianchi was a composite based on Donovan and others, and was portrayed by actor Enzo Prestigiacomo in the movie Badfellas.

 

Squinted.

 

Who?

 

 

Big Italian in a plaid jacket. No physical similarities.

 

Not much to brag about there. ‘There’s a background character partly based on my dad in Badfellas’. Barely bragging rights.

 

Back.

 

Back.

 

Death.

 

Wife shot in the throat and head while asleep. Gil tied up, dragged to the basement. Blunt force, sharp force, blades and pipes. Tongue cut out - maybe post-mortem. Cock cut off - definitely post-mortem. Gangster calling card. Doused in gasoline, but not set alight. Plastic rose stuffed in his gaping mouth, jaw near-unhinged.

 

Page made sure to mention it was his second wife.

 

Could imagine where Phil went after.

 

Could imagine why they didn’t have an open casket.

 

Latrell smirked.

 

Deleted history.

 

Closed the tabs.

 

Shut the laptop.

 

Yeah?

 

You wanna play Eyefind?

 

Latrell played Eyefind. And Latrell won.

 

Dog barking. Down cigarettes. Stood. Headed for the sliding glass door, into the backyard, overgrown grass peeking through scattered snow.

 

Dog nipping at Latrell’s heels as he shut the door, headed off into the greenery.

 

Crouched down.

 

Opie barked.

 

Cigarette stub between Latrell’s fingers.

 

Offered it.

 

Dog sniffed.

 

Latrell pushed it. Right against his mouth. Eat it, boy.

 

Opie didn’t eat it. 

 

Scurried away.

 

Sucked in cheek.

 

Stood.

 

Snow fell.

 

***

 

Focusing.

 

Focusing.

 

Eyes strained. Eyelids flickering. Two fingers on the temples, rubbing.

 

Pinpoint pupils.

 

The air was still. Stiller than still: solid, treacle, unmovable.

 

Breaths held.

 

Nothing.

 

Nothing.

 

Exhaled. “God f*cking damn it motherf*cking cock f*ck!” Threw the pencil across the room.

 

“You loser, man.”

 

“I could freakin’ do it, Chuck, it’s the energy is all.”

 

“Man, brother, blow off, bro.”

 

“I can.”

 

“I can’t even friggin’ believe I thought you even friggin’ could, man, it don’t even make logical sense.”

 

“I’ve done it before.”

 

Grant had said he could make a pencil levitate with his mind.

 

New guys had come over. New cops. Mostly shooting sh*t with the rest of the Disruption Team guys - maybe they were DT, who could say - brought a pack of Piß Light long necks. They were South Broker guys, 60th Precinct.

 

Maicon and Chuck.

 

Former was Latino - Abreu. Dressed in all-black, neck gaiter, Impotent Rage shirt, hair like plastic. Chuckie Orme, the latter, big guy with a squared out movie jaw and blond hair cropped short. Sports shades on the back of his head.

 

Abreu, “Like you’re in the Mainframe, cuz’.”

 

Grant spat back “Dickhead,” tried to play it like a joke and put the bottle to his lips without drinking.

 

The two of them had come over to talk to DeCanio and Van Der Werff.

 

Said their piece.

 

Jake and Shane at the far end of the room with Plushenko and Desmond. Talking, real serious.

 

Nothing serious here.

 

“How the f*ck could you do it before?” Chuck grinned. “It defies the laws of the physics and science sh*t.”

 

“In some societies magic is much more common.”

 

Chuck jackal-cackled. “What?”

 

“Okay, well f*ck you, now you’re just making me feel stupid.”

 

Abreu, “It is f*cking stupid! Magic isn’t real.”

 

“Explain a magician to me.”

 

“Get the f*ck outta here.”

 

Chuck, “It’s a visual mind trick.”

 

“All magic,” Grant said, “is a visual mind trick in some kinda’ ways. It don’t defy the laws of nature.”

 

Latrell, “I mean–”

 

“I’ll crack your f*cking head. Shut it. Listen,” turned to the guys, “if it don’t make no sense, explain souls and Jesus.”

 

“That’s different,” Chuck said. “That’s God ordained.”

 

Abreu, “You haven’t spoken to God.”

 

“All nature is magic, brother,” Grant sighed. “I told this to Eddie, once. All nature is magic and all souls are nature, in a sense, and they’re magic in a little way you can’t see–”

 

“Eddie? Gilhooly?”

 

“No, no, McCornish.”

 

No words. Abreu threw up the sign of the cross, dashed across his chest.

 

“Beautiful bastard that man was,” Chuck said.

 

“Ed had DT in his bones and DT pumpin’ in his bloodstream.”

 

“Twenty-oh-eight. Year of the Cop-Killer.”

 

Ed McCornish?

 

Latrell the passive observer. Latrell the meter maid - had gotten them a bowl of chips earlier.

 

Latrell observed.

 

Latrell smirked.

 

Opened his phone.

 

“It was Jimmy,” Grant said, “had the laughs and the jokes. But Eddie had the wisdom. Ed knew what was f*cked and what weren’t.”

 

 

“That was a real man, my boys,” Chuck beamed. “That was a disruptin’ man. We got a crop of kids now out in the boroughs.”

 

“What was it Eddie said about millennials? Hard men make good times, good times make weak men.”

 

Abreu, “Weak men make bad times and on and on.”

 

“Was his brother did the tour in Afghanistan? The twin?”

 

Ed McCornish.

 

 

Tied to a dozen corruption cases with his partner, James Matthews. Third Grade Detective. PBA member. Plainclothes on an Angels of Death beat.

 

“Wish I had a twin, man,” Grant chuckled. “You could do some f*ckin’ comedy movie sh*t, some switcheroo sh*t. Switch girlfriends and you wouldn’t know.”

 

Latrell leaned forward.

 

Tried to stop the smile.

 

“Ain’t him and his dog get laid out by some Angels of Death dudes?”

 

Grant’s smile faded.

 

Chuck, “What the hell did you just say?”

 

Latrell paused.

 

Realized he hadn’t stopped smiling.

 

Grant stood. “Shut your goddamn mouth.”

 

“You keep his name,” Abreu spat, “out your little coon-ass head.”

 

Latrell, “I ain’t mean no offense–”

 

“You are disrespecting the name of a dead f*cking police f*ckin’ officer,” Chuck spat, “We shoulda’ gone- you ain’t put his name, you don’t disrespect that man’s name.”

 

“He got his sh*t got, though–”

 

Grant grabbed Latrell by the collar. “How the f*ck you know about that?”

 

Chuck, “Show us the phone, you f*cking rat.”

 

Abreu stood, grabbed him by the hand, peeled the phone out. “You eavesdropping worm. What, you like cop-killers?”

 

“You snitch f*ck. You ain’t got the right.”

 

Grant grabbed him by the cheeks. Pressed his thumb down on his eye.

 

Latrell didn’t fight it, “Yo, son, I’m sorry, son–”

 

“Yup. He Duplexed it,” Abreu threw the phone down. “I saw Ed’s picture.”

 

“You eavesdropping?” Grant’s spittle on his face, “You f*ckin' motherf*cker, I oughta' break your f*cking hand. You don’t listen when we speak–”

 

“Hey!”

 

“You–”

 

“HEY!”

 

Grant dropped him, “What?!”

 

DeCanio across the room. Eating grain chips. Stood up from his spot with Jake, “Get the hell off him.”

 

Long pause.

 

Air was treacle.

 

Grant said “What I do wrong?”

 

“He ain’t meant nothing.”

 

Abreu, “Meant or no, I ain’t gonna tolerate disrespect on a dead brother in my arms.”

 

“Then he’s sorry. Cool your jets. I gotta talk to him ‘bout what we spoke on, Maicon, you know better.”

 

Sighed.

 

Abreu sat down.

 

Finger to Latrell’s chest. Grant snarled, “You don’t research me.”

 

“Grant!”

 

Hands up.

 

Latrell stumbled back.

 

Shane eating grain chips.

 

Desmond long-gone. Casey Plushenko, big buzzcut Ukrainian-American with an ear stud and a pencil beard, army sweater and toothpick. Jake sitting at the desk, oversized sherpa-lined hoodie.

 

Free chair.

 

Latrell felt eyes on the back of his head. Took his seat. Exhaled.

 

Plushenko, “Was that fun?”

 

“Son, you tell me, I just do my job.”

 

Scoffed. “Job.”

 

Didn’t reply.

 

Jake, “We got new criteria.”

 

“You hear that?” Shane chirped. “You got new f*ckin’ boxes to tick.”

 

Blinked. “How?”

 

“How close are we to lift-off?”

 

Thought. Latrell gulped, “Maybe, uh, I don’t- sh*t, we got things runnin’ along n’ sh*t, y’know, could be–”

 

“You been dallyin’,” Plushenko said. Wasn’t a question.

 

“That ain’t true. We just need to make sure we do the sh*t when the boat come in. March. Late February.”

 

“f*ck the boat,” Shane snapped. “Ain’t no more dally. End of the month.”

 

Blinked. “What?”

 

“By the end of the month.”

 

“Son, I don’t know if I can swing that.”

 

Jake, “Then f*cking swing it.”

 

“We got new targets to hit,” Shane said, “and we need to hit them now. We need these guys wrapped up. We need them in lockup in February, and we need them flipping so we can charge in August.”

 

“You do your f*cking job. No later than the 31st. Let’s say… the 25th. You do it on the 25th.”

 

“The 25th?!”

 

“Yeah, Latrell, the 25th.”

 

“It’s the 16th. We do this in nine days?!”

 

“This ain’t a debate, Cueball. That’s it. You got the guns, you got the approval.” 

 

Shane cackled, “No more dallyin’.”

 

Breathed.

 

Breathed.

 

Tapped his foot.

 

Tapped his foot.

 

Teeth clenched. “Okay,” Latrell said. “I can–”

 

“We got murder on the cards.”

 

Latrell’s heart jumped a bit. Tapped his foot. “Okay.”

 

“Solid murder. We can maybe tie to Zito. Put a pin in this like a cocktail weenie.”

 

“We need you,” Plushenko said, “to sew the knot. We need you on tape talking about people involved. You okay being wired up?”

 

“I’m always wired up,” Latrell sang.

 

“Cool it, dopey. We got names. We need you to say the names. Connect them to the port, connect them to the robbery, connect them to greater La Cosa Nostra.”

 

“I done it before.”

 

“Do it right.”

 

“Abbot Cohen,” Shane said. “One T, if you needa’ write it down.”

 

“Abbot Cohen?” Felt for his phone–

 

“Don’t look it up, you won’t get sh*t. He’s a Gambetti associate. We got a solid lead on a murder in Hove Beach: Russian gangster. Teddy Feygin. We got a gun in a gutter, we got DNA on some ear plugs, we got some security footage. We just need word on tape.”

 

Parroted, “Abbot Cohen, Teddy Feygin.”

 

Jake, “We got this guy in a car we bugged. On tape with Zito, Ocelot F620. He’s got a buddy, informant just called him ‘Potato Nose’, I don’t know if that’s an alias.”

 

“Other murder is Seth Cvjeticanin. C-V-J-E-T-I-C-A-N-I-N, Cvjeticanin. Alias is ‘Preacher’. Seamen’s Church, confidential informant.”

 

Latrell, “Like me?”

 

“In a way.”

 

Squinted. “Seamen’s Church?”

 

“Yessir.”

 

“I think I know. Saw that on the TV. Electrical fire or somesh*t.”

 

“Feds found a rag. Feds flipped the guy originally, that cocksucker Chris Perez, they had incentive to look harder.”

 

Squinted harder. “You mad they think it’s a murder?”

 

Shrugged. “Could be smoke and mirrors. Just a rag.”

 

Plushenko, “Makes our job a lot harder for a prosecutor dick-suck. But that’s the chain of command. Feds like a big charge.”

 

“Like a big dick-suck.”

 

Latrell laughed, “Ha, yeah.”

 

Jake said “What ‘yeah’? Like you’d f*cking know.”

 

Latrell stopped laughing.

 

Shane, “Another name. Lupes this time, not Gambettis. Momo Labriola. You know Frankie’s father, Samuzzo?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“He’s been shelved. Frankie woulda’ been killed, you know that, so someone took the fall. That someone was his father. Momo’s the replacement.”

 

Did the math in his head. “So–”

 

“So Frankie’s boss ain’t his pops no more. It’s Massimo Labriola. Shelved Samootz because of the Albanian botchjob. Frankie won’t be pleased. Kiddie gloves are off, Momo’s gonna expect better earn–”

 

“Frankie’s father is demented,” Jake shot.

 

“Goes without sayin’.”

 

“Samootz also taxed everyone harsh. Y’know? Even with his r*tard brain. Was pissed when a penny weren’t a nickel and a nickel weren’t a dime. So he made good money, but his eggs were f*cking scrambled. Needed a good excuse to demote him, get someone competent.”

 

“You did it, Cuey. You got ‘em Momo.”

 

Latrell frowned. “That’s cool.” Tapped his foot.

 

“For the Broker guys it is. Everyone except Frankie it’s good for,” Jake said. “Momo, he’s a crowd pleaser, all the Broker guys love him. Except Frankie. Frankie ain’t spoke about him?”

 

Latrell shook his head. “Ain’t talk about his pop got Alzheimers ‘n sh*t. But you can tell. Got the denials n’ sh*t.”

 

Shane, “He don’t share much with ya’, huh Cuey? Ya’ f*ckin’ scem’.”

 

“Frankie ain’t popular generally, anywho. He’s lucky Samootz was Hairy Al’s driver.” Jake crossed his arms. “That simple.”

 

“Frankie’s a bad seed, but what are they supposed to do?” Plushenko quoted. Held the toothpick like a faux-cigar, sh*t eating grin. “Shoot him?”

 

“They woulda’ shot him for the thing with Vyvyan. If the Messinas had their way. But the Italians are afraid of their own shadow.”

 

“Look,” Shane spat. “Momo Labriola.”

 

Latrell repeated, “Momo Labriola.”

 

“Momo is now capo of the former East Liberty crew. You ask Frankie about Momo. Get them talking. See if there’s bad blood. Momo’s tongue-lashed Frankie before. Try saddle that wolf.”

 

Blinked. “Saddle that wolf?”

 

“Lupi; wolves. Sella; saddle. The Wolves.”

 

Jake, “It’s a joke.”

 

“Wolves are pack animals. Try ride one like a horse. They’ll all kill you.”

 

Plushenko snap-snap-snapped his fingers, “What about Ricecakes?”

 

“Ricecakes! Damn. Okay, Latrell, Ricecakes is Daniella Lu–”

 

Phone rang.

 

“Ignore that. Ricecakes is Roy–”

 

Hung up.

 

“Okay. Listen. Ricecakes’ uncle is Bert Grimaldo, okay? But desp–”

 

Phone rang.

 

Jake, “Goddamn it!”

 

Grant in the back, “What the hell is wrong with you?!”

 

“Answer it!”

 

“Just–”

 

“C’mon–”

 

Latrell answered.

 

Nothing.

 

Nothing.

 

“Yo,” DB said.

 

“What the f*ck you want?”

 

Nothing.

 

“We needa-” stopped a second, “we needa’ talk. We need to talk.”

 

Blinked. “Why? I’m busy.”

 

“Then I’m out.”

 

“What?! Idiot! What I tell you?!”

 

“We gotta link up, son.”

 

“I can’t–”

 

“Then I’m out.”

 

Nothing.

 

Nothing.

 

“Fine,” Latrell said.

 

***

 

The Monoglobe.

 

Couldn’t meet at the Milden Houses.

 

Couldn’t meet in Broker.

 

It wasn’t safe.

 

Felt a thousand eyes on him. Felt eyes in the back of the cab driver’s head. Felt them at the bus stop and in his phone and on the street and in the sky.

 

Latrell told DB they’d meet in Dukes. Where in Dukes? Only knew a few places in Dukes. Where the Cosmos played, the Pavilion Towers, Chinatown, and the Monoglobe.

 

A2Z driver said this whole thing was a pain in the ass.

 

Latrell didn’t reply.

 

Had walked.

 

Hexagonal pavement and the snow piled up poorly scraped away. Snow halfway ankle-high off the trail where the trees, lifeless and leafless, sprouted natural crucifixes along an avenue of sore victories. Mist of white, cold on the face.

 

Felt abandoned. Ice clumped by dead grass. Ghost fog. Sky clearer than he’d ever seen.

 

Pavilion Towers were godless satellite dishes, ruined superiority, clown paint pinstripes of red and white.

 

Horizon - octagonal US Open stadium, construction cranes, museum-cum-ice-rink. White, cloudless sky.

 

The Monoglobe.

 

Armillary human universe. Steel skeleton, spit-spurt fountains surrounding, the world standing tall on its tripod, a testament to the new. A testament to everything, of looping hunks, of endless seas and entire worlds Latrell never wanted to see. It stood unshaken, overconfident. It was meant to be temporary. But the Monoglobe was unmoving, unmoved for fifty years, blemished by bird sh*t and a tornado that knocked off the chunk of steel meant to represent Florida.

 

Fifty years ago, the World’s Fair planted a symbol in Meadows Park meant to symbolize the world Liberty City ruled.

 

Fifty years ago, the smog above Algonquin was so thick that babies died in their sleep.

 

Latrell pulled the Debonaire out the pocket of his jacket.

 

Latrell was tapping his foot.

 

Disposable lighter flicked.

 

Dusted the moisture off the park bench. Watched the seagulls fly.

 

Foot tapped.

 

Foot tapped.

 

Dukes was shrouded in broken glass.

 

In the haunted park, along the main walkway, Latrell spotted the boy.

 

Delmar Belcourt had his hands in the pockets of his pullover. Oversized on lanky frame, on tight joggers, on still eyes aimed downward.

 

Had trimmed his hair. No dreads. Short, napped out, unstyled.

 

Latrell stood. Tapped his foot.

 

DB stopped.

 

DB stared.

 

“Yo!” Latrell cried.

 

DB hesitated.

 

Approached.

 

“Yo! Nah, son, when you cut your hair, son?”

 

Didn’t reply.

 

“You hear what the f*ck I said, Balla? When you cut your hair?”

 

DB stopped. Pulled the earbuds out. “What?”

 

“When you cut your f*ckin’ bum ass dreads off, son, when’d they go?”

 

Beat. “I dunno.”

 

“Oh, okay.”

 

“I mean–”

 

“Recent? Or what, I just don’t notice? I ain’t seen?”

 

“I ain’t seen you in ‘bout two weeks, man.”

 

“Okay. So within that f*ckin’ period?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“Or what?”

 

Blinked. “What?”

 

“Get the f*ck closer.” Took the Debonaire out his mouth, spat tobacco on the ground. “Yeah, okay, son, your brain all f*cked up, son, you gotta think straight.”

 

DB sighed.

 

“You got a problem?”

 

Got a nod back. “I’m going today.”

 

Tapped foot.

 

Tapped foot.

 

Tapped foot.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“I said what I said.”

 

“Goin’ where?”

 

“Cheraw.”

 

Blinked.

 

Heart twitched. Tapped his foot. “No.”

 

Laughed back. Confused. “You don’t say no to that, L. You don’t, you ain’t got a choice in the matter.”

 

“You tell–”

 

“My brother drove me over.”

 

“You wylin’, son, you for real?”

 

DB shrugged. “It is what it is.”

 

“I’m gonna speak to him.”

 

“No,” DB said. “You ain’t. I’m done.”

 

“You’re leaving early, son. Early! You said February or March, son–”

 

“No.”

 

“Yes!”

 

“No,” DB repeated. “I said January or February. It’s January.”

 

“You let me know last second. Last f*cking second!”

 

“I told you it was gonna happen.”

 

“You know how much this f*cks sh*t up for me, son, you know how much you done f*cked me over while I was ballin’ for you, balla, while I was ballin’ for you?”

 

“I’m sorry,” DB said. “I ain’t wanna screw things up for you. I don’t want to disappoint you.”

 

“You did.”

 

Real hurt in his eyes. “Son, don’t bug, I’m sorry.”

 

Blinked. “You are f*cking worthless. Superspy motherf*cker, you keep sh*t secret from me, you don’t wanna-” scoffed, “you did. Disappoint me like sh*t, nigga, you stupid motherf*cker.”

 

Blinked.

 

“You for real the dumbest nigga I ever met, b, where the f*ck your brother or your cousin at, son? I oughta’ kill him, man.”

 

“You don’t talk about him like that.”

 

“Yo, f*ck you mean I don’t- first of all, you don’t tell me what the f*ck I oughta’ do Delmar Belcourt, you stupid ass faggot punk. You f*ckin’ hear me?”

 

“Don’t bug–”

 

“We past buggin’, balla, I’m bugged out all the way, you lucky I don’t air you the f*ck out, you ungrateful ass bitch.” Pointed in his chest, “I was gettin’ untaxed f*ckin’ bread for you and your r*tard brother for you to take to Georgia or whatever the f*ck you f*ckin’ gettin’ your stupid ass.”

 

“What you care about taxes for, Latrell?”

 

Tapped his foot. “f*ck you say, punk?”

 

“All you do is shakin’, all you talk about is shakin’, ‘bout untaxed work and makin’ mooga without that sh*t gettin’ shook. Who cares?”

 

“When the f*ck an OG earned the slice a’ cake I give that Balla for sh*t they ain’t do? But, yo, get scammed, like I give a f*ck about you.”

 

“That sh*t petty, son, for your sh*t where you make no money anyway.”

 

Stepped forward. “I ain’t your son, DB. I son you. You beneath.”

 

“Don’t insult me.”

 

“I oughta’ tell the five star about your f*ckin’ treachery, nigga, yo’ fiendin–”

 

“No you ain’t.”

 

“I will.”

 

“Latrell.”

 

“Traitor.”

 

“You don’t wanna meet at the Houses. You ain’t been down the Houses in weeks, man, you ain’t gonna rat me out, b, don’t play, son, you ain’t that clever.”

 

“Oh, yeah, superspy, with your clever-ass f*ckin’ faggot–”

 

“I thought you cared about me.”

 

“I did. Before this. Before you vampire-sucked my sh*t out, son. You a leech, son. I had a timeline, son.”

 

“I don’t think you ever cared about me, Latrell.”

 

“Oh yeah?”

 

Nodded. “Yeah.”

 

“You the only thing that matters.”

 

“Bullsh*t. You the only one that matters to you, son, ‘cause you the f*ck lied to me ‘bout Knot.”

 

“I saved you from Knot. I had love for you.”

 

“I talked to his parents,” DB said. “You ain’t been over there. You never been over there.”

 

“I was there when they weren’t,” Latrell lied.

 

“Quit it, son, I ain’t stupid. They got a list.”

 

“Maybe they lyin’ to you? I think they is.”

 

“Maybe? Or is?”

 

“Is, you r*tard, is. They wanna poison this sh*t.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because you a faggot stupid motherf*cker fall for every faggot stupid sh*t a nigga pull, picklock superspy little balla bitch. I’m smarter than you. You dumb as f*ck.”

 

“If I’m dumb, you don’t need me.”

 

“You my main dude, DB, you my picklock, son.”

 

“Am I dumb or the picklock, Latrell? You out your f*ckin’ mind, b. Why Knot’s parents give a sh*t ‘bout some dumb gangbang sh*t, or some stupid ass dream from six months ago to do some UD sh*t and make some untaxed cash.”

 

“UD a goldrush, nigga. I’m your boss, DB, you do as I say.”

 

“You ain’t my boss.”

 

“I am!”

 

“All the UD dudes dead or in jail, son. I don’t wanna die, I don’t wanna go to jail, b.”

 

“Maybe I kill you right where you stand, son.”

 

“No, you won’t,” DB said. “And you can’t. I’m goin’ to Cheraw. Knot’s gone. Ramon’s dead. Xavier’s in the joint. But I’m going to Cheraw.”

 

“No you ain’t.”

 

“Knot in a coma, you ain’t seen him.”

 

“So what?”

 

Blinked.

 

The air still.

 

The globe loomed.

 

DB sighed.

 

“Oh, yeah. Run. Knot a vegetable. So what? He ain’t good for sh*t. He doubted me. You doubted me, you ain’t good for sh*t neither. You stupid you think I am, b. You laughed about my scar, you probably wanted me gone from the start, son, you wanted me gone.”

 

Blinked. “Laughed about what?”

 

“I laughed about how much of a dumb duppy you are and how I know where your grandma lives, son, that’s what I laughed about. I’m dead anyways, I could kill her, make it even, you punk. I know you sh*t-talk me. I know you a little dirt boy, peewee balla punk, think he big, I know you afraid. You my dog, bitch, you my pet. I know you scared.”

 

DB stood there.

 

“You wanna be a question or you wanna be an answer, Delmar Belcourt?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“You don’t know sh*t.”

 

“I don’t know what that means, Latrell. I just know it’s over.”

 

“You are worthless. Knot a stupid bitch. Xavier stupid. You stupid. But guess what? Guess what? Every time I lied, you ate that sh*t like dinner, son. And now you walked all this way. I made you come here, you walked all this way, so I could tell you personally, bitch, that you are–”

 

“I asked you to come here.”

 

Latrell pushed DB.

 

DB stumbled.

 

Latrell strode forward.

 

Pushed again.

 

Missed.

 

DB stepped back.

 

“You mean nothing to me now, picklock superspy. Go on. Run.”

 

DB turned.

 

“Run!”

 

DB walked away.

 

“I’ll see you in Alabama! I’ll see you in the South! See the world, then, nigga! Big balla! You forget yourself, but I know who you are! I know it!”

 

DB walked away.

 

“I know you a snitch! I know you ain’t amount to nothin’! You gonna be Ballin’ in Birmingham, though, nigga, just watch, I’m gonna be livin’ out watchin’ the TV see your faggot ass on the TV- on the TV with Balla colors, like they matter- you gon’ be dead! Two-face betrayin’ pussy. You dead to yourself!”

 

DB walked away.

 

The globe loomed.

 

The cigarette ashed to the filter.

 

“I know you scared,” Latrell lied.

 

The globe loomed.

 

Snow fell.

 

***

 

The tattoo parlor.

 

The 18th.

 

Had told them yesterday.

 

Money was on the line. Wordlessly, so were their heads.

 

On the 25th, they’d move.

 

They’d bought masks. Had the guns.

 

The Penetrators were playing Lenapia. Early game, 1 PM. Galahad Palace Arena.

 

Titus was visiting his father.

 

They were in the second overtime.

 

Reuben had been on the edge of his seat the car ride over.

 

Frankie had money on the Penetrators. Reuben had a three way parley, money on the Bandits and Montresor hockey.

 

Phil had gin.

 

Latrell was mic’d up.

 

Steel-color Diet Beam can under Frankie’s plimsoll. Used the ring-pull like a toothpick.

 

“Yo, check that out,” Latrell chanted, “Check that out, check that out.”

 

“Oh!” Dunk. 109 to the Penetrators. “What the f*ck was that?”

 

“What was what?” Reuben parroted, “What was what?”

 

“That’s what the f*ck you wanna f*ckin’ see is what the f*ck it is, huh?”

 

“I don’t–” Layup. 109 to Bells. “Ohhh, c’mon.”

 

Frankie bet to play.

 

Reuben bet to win.

 

Knew it by how they watched. Frankie had numbers - hobby numbers. Reuben played degenerate. Never got a word out of him on anything, just greed on his breath.

 

Latrell watched Phil drink. Little smirk. 

 

Fun game.

 

“Yo, Frankie,” Latrell said.

 

“What?”

 

“Was thinkin’ ‘bout this sh*t–”

 

“There’s a first.” Chuckled, “Nah, Bumpy. What’s up?”

 

Blinked.

 

Blinked.

 

“Uh, pff… well, uh- uh…” Blinked. “Y- uh, y’know Momo–”

 

“Momo? Momo who?”

 

“Momo the nigga was talm’ ‘bout that dude with the cataracts, that dude Arnie, son.”

 

Phil grinned, “He say that?” Snuffle, “He gives everyone sh*t. It don’t surprise me”

 

Frankie, “What you care about Momo?”

 

“Well,” Latrell said, “I mean I care- I know he–”

 

“Oh!” 111 to the Penetrators. “How about that!”

 

“I heard,” Latrell said, “about what with your father.”

 

Pause.

 

Frankie turned.

 

Pulled the ring-pull out his mouth.

 

Murmured “Yeah?”

 

Eye contact.

 

Glare.

 

Latrell began–

 

“Who told you what?” Frankie asked.

 

“Me,” Phil lied. “I mean, I just heard about what was goin’ ‘round–”

 

“Yeah?”

 

Reuben howled. 113 to the Penetrators.

 

Frankie didn’t look back at the screen.

 

Phil, “I mean, it’s happened.”

 

“Sure,” shot back.

 

“We gonna deny it?”

 

“Deny what? What are we denying, Rusty?”

 

Reuben laughed, “Jelly Phil. Jelly Phil! No!” 111 to Lenapia. “Goddamn–”

 

“You know what I know about Momo Labriola?” Frankie asked.

 

Latrell said “Nah.”

 

“I know he got shingles.”

 

Reuben laughed again. “That story.”

 

Phil, “Shingles?”

 

“You don’t know?” Grinned, “I heard that from Caccamo.”

 

Frankie, “You know what you get the Shingles from? From ya’ freakin’ nerves. And Momo, he’s a nervous wreck. Had gauze all up the arm when Luke Caccamo went to see him.”

 

“Maybe it was chicken pox?” Phil asked.

 

“No,” Frankie replied. “He’s a nervous wreck.”

 

Reuben, “Yo! Yo! Cirillo’s on the ball! Look at that?”

 

Five foot shot.

 

Hit.

 

117 to the Penetrators. “Oh baby!”

 

Frankie, “There it is.”

 

“It’s over.”

 

“It’s over, cheech.” Rubbing his hands, “That’s- you don’t doubt Cirillo–”

 

“You heard about Abbot Cohen?” Latrell asked.

 

“Who?”

 

Phil said “Who? He play in the LOB?”

 

Latrell said “Zito guy, I heard.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“And?” Frankie asked.

 

“Nah, but it’s got some sh*t to do with what we boutta’ do. Zito’s dude, the port. Lit up some dude.”

 

Phil said “I ain’t heard this.”

 

Frankie, “His name is what?”

 

“Abbot Cohen.”

 

“Is that Jew?”

 

“Yeah. Cohen.”

 

“But he pulled a hit?”

 

Latrell said “I just heard, from my sources, you know–”

 

“What sources?”

 

“Askin’ around at the port,” Latrell lied. “And this dude got lit up, this preacher guy, at the port.”

 

Phil’s eyes lit up. “In Alderney?”

 

“Yeah,” Latrell said, “in Alderney.”

 

“I remember this. Saw it on the TV, couple months back. Electrical fire. Guess not.”

 

Game didn’t matter anymore. 52 seconds on the clock, 113 to 117. Reuben said “And this a Zito thing?”

 

“I mean… it makes sense.”

 

“Guy got greedy,” Latrell lied. “Down in East Hook, that’s how good the jugg is, they just peelin’ off bands like they toilet paper or some sh*t, son, he was with the Port Authority–”

 

Door opened.

 

Rodney. 

 

Grim. “We gotta talk.”

 

Latrell said “Hold on–”

 

Frankie said “No.” Looked at Latrell, “Rod needs to say something.”

 

“I was just talking–”

 

Reuben, “What the f*ck is with the disrespect, Bumpy?”

 

Long pause.

 

Latrell backed down.

 

Half breathless on Rodney, hand through his hair, “Uh, game was- I was listening on my phone.” Long pause. 

 

Thought.

 

He’d timed his arrival so they wouldn’t be distracted.

 

Little cocksucker.

 

Phil said “Yeah.”

 

Frankie said “Out with it.”

 

Rodney said “I’m done, I can’t do this.”

 

No.

 

Latrell half-jumped, “Do what?!” Said that louder than he meant to.

 

“Latrell–”

 

“Ayo–”

 

“Calm do–”

 

“I’m sorry,” Latrell snapped, “but what the f*ck, son?”

 

“I can’t do 25th,” Rodney said.

 

“When the f*ck can you do–”

 

“I can’t do it any time.”

 

“I know what the f*ck you talkin’ ‘bout, nigga, you f*ckin’--

 

“Latrell!” Was Phil. Hand on his shoulders.

 

Latrell paused.

 

Brushed it off. 

 

Breathed. “This about the sh*t we boutta’ do–”

 

“I got subpoenaed,” Rodney said.

 

The room stopped.

 

The room stopped.

 

Reuben said “You got papers?”

 

Frankie said “You got a friggin’ bullseye on your back, you come here?”

 

Rodney, “This is my shop, Frankie.”

 

“You f*ckin’ scustumad’.”

 

Latrell, “You see where–”

 

“Shut the f*ck up, Bumpy!” Back to Rodney, “What happened?”

 

“It’s about that f*ckin’ Ricecakes.”

 

“Cody Ricecakes?”

 

“Yeah, Cody f*ckin’ Ricecakes–”

 

Latrell repeating “Yeah, I know that, I know that, I know that–”

 

“Know what? What is there to know?”

 

“He’s Zito–”

 

“It’s Titus, man. Ricecakes is his sister’s girlfriend–”

 

Reuben laughed “Girlfriend? He a woman?”

 

And Frankie said “You know what he f*cking means, he’s screwin’ Dani,” to Rodney, “so what? So what?”

 

“So this is about the thing with the pizzeria, with the Benefactor he set on f*ckin’ fire, with that dipsh*t Smarty–”

 

“That mean Titus is out?!”

 

Latrell shouted “No!”

 

Frankie glared. “One more time.”

 

“I’m sorry–”

 

“You are?”

 

“--I can’t f*ckin’ take this, Frankie, I can’t take this.” Eyes bugged. Started circling the room, “Titus ain’t out.”

 

Reuben, “You don’t speak for him–”

 

“He can’t be out! I- in fac- uh, sh*t, it’s all workin’--”

 

Phil, “He’s right, we can’t.”

 

“No. Listen. This is all outta’ whack.”

 

“Latrell–”

 

“Don’t interrupt me! No- no- okay, no, first we gotta write the guns down.”

 

Blink.

 

“What?”

 

Frankie, “Slow down–”

 

“So we don’t get confused,” Latrell said. “So we don’t get confused who’s using what. Then we- okay, we should write everyone involved–”

 

“No we shouldn’t!”

 

“Listen! So we can keep- everyone in mind, so it all works well. So it all works well!”

 

Reuben, “Stop–”

 

“Write every name down. Write every gun down. And we keep it- it’s FRANKIE, it’s REUBEN, it’s PHIL–”

 

Frankie, “Shut yoUR MOUTH YOU MO–”

 

Bang.

 

Rodney stamped his foot.

 

Room stopped.

 

Room simmered.

 

Air was ghosts.

 

Rodney exhaled.

 

Air was ghosts.

 

“We need to calm down,” Rodney said. “Titus- Titus’ll be fine. I’m just- I can’t do this. I can’t.”

 

Frankie, “It’s fine–”

 

Latrell, “How?!”

 

“Because I f*cking said! It’s fine.” Glared. “We gotta chill.” 

 

Exhaled.

 

Heart pumping.

 

Foot tapped.

 

Phil said “He’s good.”

 

“No problem then, Rusty.” Frankie nudged head at the after-show break, “Penetrators won. We got good money. No problems.”

 

Reuben muttered, “I gotta check the Bandits–”

 

Firm, “It’s fine.”

 

Simmered.

 

Simmered.

 

List in Latrell’s head.

 

DB was out.

 

Titus was out.

 

Left six men. Five guns. Titus wasn’t a gun - that’d be fine.

 

Phil, Frankie, Reuben, Kevin, him.

 

Blinked.

 

Room settled.

 

Commercial.

 

Latrell tapped foot.

 

Needed his smokes.

 

God.

 

God.

 

God.

 

Phil broke the silence, “Hey, Frankie. I was thinkin’.”

 

Thoughts streaming through Frankie’s head. Fireworks show in there. Frankie said “What?” Hardly a question.

 

“You, uh…” looked to Latrell. Winked. “You remember, the wedding? Ya’ wedding last year?”

 

Shrugged. “Sure.”

 

“I said I couldn’t come.”

 

Reuben, “You didn’t.”

 

“Yeah, well. Y’know. I told you why. About my car? It wouldn’t work?”

 

Frankie said “Sure.”

 

“That was a lie.” It was. “I didn’t come,” he grinned, “‘cause it woulda’, uh… haha… we woulda’ had to share the gifts. At the communist wedding.”

 

The room was silent.

 

“What?”

 

“Because your wife, huh?” Ear to ear. “She’s Cuban.”

 

“No.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“No. She’s not Cuban. What?”

 

Blinked. “Oh.”

 

“Milagros ain’t Cuban. She’s f*cking Dominican.”

 

Rodney chuckled.

 

Reuben was watching TV.

 

Phil breathed.

 

Phil rubbed his eye.

 

Latrell sat there.

 

Nobody looked at him.

 

Nobody wanted to.

 

His foot tapped.

 

Nobody wanted to look at him. Except Phil. Phil craned eyes.

 

Wet eyes.

 

Latrell scooched over. Chair dragged along carpet tiles.

 

TV buzzed.

 

“Sorry,” Phil whispered.

 

Latrell nodded.

 

“I- sorry, I butchered ya’ joke.”

 

Smacked his lips. “Yeah.”

 

“Woulda’ been good, though. If she was Cuban.” Little ‘heh’.

 

“Yeah, well, y’know–”

 

“Listen, hey. Latrell. I’m sorry for puttin’ my hands on you. With the shoulder.”

 

Latrell nodded.

 

“Y’know, I was just… I was tryna’... you saw with the Momo thing, though. I was there.”

 

“Yep.”

 

“This thing- you don’t, uh, listen, hey,” lowered his voice even more, “screw Rodney Gravelli. We don’t need him. And screw Zito, screw Momo. Okay? Don’t worry.”

 

Latrell nodded.

 

“This is a sure thing. You know it! Okay?”

 

“I know everything.”

 

“Yeah, sh- yeah, yeah yeah. Yeah. You know that- Momo- yeah. Hey.” Tapped his temple, “You got that.”

 

TV buzzed.

 

Latrell nodded. “Like your dad.”

 

TV buzzed.

 

“Wh- uh, yeah. What? Yeah. What?”

 

“Nah, son, like your dad. Like they gotta give respect to your dad. They don’t.”

 

Furrowed his brow, but he was following, “Yeah! Yeah.”

 

“Or how you- your dad. What was your dad’s name?”

 

Blinked. “Uh… what? Gil. What does- what it ma- uh–”

 

“Gilroy.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Gilroy, Philly. And he had you young, too.”

 

TV buzzed.

 

Phil exhaled hard. “I guess.”

 

“Was he a good man, Phil?”

 

Blinked. “Yes.”

 

“Was he?”

 

“What?”

 

“I’unno. Like Buck Fifty. Or Kwame. Kwame was a good man, good Balla.” Chuckled, “I wish Kwame got to be in a movie. In Badfellas, ha, in Badfellas. Johnny Jukebox.”

 

Little smile in the corner of his mouth. “Yeah.”

 

“And rob FIA! Yeah.”

 

“Sure.”

 

“But in Badfellas he didn’t die like your dad did.”

 

Stopped smiling.

 

Latrell didn’t.

 

He wasn’t trying to.

 

“Where’d you go after your dad died, Phil?”

 

Blinked. “I-... uh…”

 

“I’m just wonderin’, son.”

 

“My… uh, my mom.”

 

“Your mom? What you mean? Your momma ain’t live with your pops?”

 

Phil’s gin bottle was his stress toy. Palmed it, rotated it. “Uh…”

 

“Who was the chick who got killed when your dad died?”

 

Phil didn’t reply.

 

“I just wonder. I ain’t know her name.”

 

“Can we not–”

 

“What? You don’t wanna say?”

 

“It was- look, just… I–”

 

“Can I guess?”

 

“Kathy.”

 

“Kathy? That her full name? Or short for Katherine–”

 

“Latrell.” Wasn’t Phil.

 

Looked back.

 

Frankie’s eyes. “What you say his name was again?” Rodney and Reuben along with him, all eyes laser focused.

 

“Who?”

 

“The guy did the guy in Alderney.”

 

Rodney, “When was this?”

 

Latrell said “Last year. Fall, I think. Abbot Cohen.”

 

“That his name?”

 

“Abbot Cohen.”

 

Rodney concurred, “I ain’t heard that before. So he’s Gambetti?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Not Pavano? I might’a heard a’ him if he was Gambetti, cuz’, but–”

 

Frankie, “Pavanos are from Mars. West Side is aliens.”

 

Reuben, “Real crafty.”

 

“No,” Latrell said.

 

“Only hit we know about,” Frankie said, “after our thing? Was the other week.”

 

Latrell paused.

 

“Some wolves,” Rodney smiled, “had a big dinner.”

 

“In Beechwood or South Slopes,” Frankie said. “Call it revenge.”

 

Latrell blinked.

 

Foot tapped.

 

“Revenge for what?”

 

Reuben said “Jamaicans ran up on a friend of ours. Not they ain’t runnin’.”

 

Nodded.

 

“Abbot Cohen?”

 

Latrell nodded.

 

Foot tapped.

 

“Abbot Cohen.” Exhaled. “I’m gonna have a smoke.”

 

“You gotta do it outside.”

 

“I know.”

 

Latrell stood up.

 

They went back to talking.

 

Phil stared at the floor.

 

Door opened.

 

Door shut.

 

Rear parking lot.

 

The ghosts were in the air.

 

Felt his jacket.

 

Felt his phone.

 

Felt his smokes.

 

 

Snorted.

 

Read.

 

Debonaire pack clack.

 

Exhaled.

 

Threw up on the ground.

 

Cigarettes fell in the bile.

 

Latrell threw up on the ground.

 

Snow fell.

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

Vice City Map

Edited January 20, 2024 by slimeball supreme

[Ziggy455]

I've been on a massive hiatus and just got back into this. I think I'll re-read it from the start. The quality of this is near perfection in its differing styles, prose, and dialogue. I had another question about your process before you write. Do you just sit down and have the idea in your mind of what this chapter or that chapter will be, or do you just sit and let it all flow? Like do you plan it out at all or outline? 

 

I'll get back with an actual critique once I've caught up with the story up until now. 

[slimeball supreme]

always super appreciative of any feedback i get! never know for sure who is reading or if anyone is reading at all lol. thank you so much for the post and praise! really strive to make each and every character feel authentic to their background, to feel as real and distinct as possible, for a little universe to exist in the head of each person in the narrative no matter how minor, to the detail accurate recounting of very specific people at a very specific point in time

 

12 hours ago, Ziggy455 said:

Do you just sit down and have the idea in your mind of what this chapter or that chapter will be, or do you just sit and let it all flow? Like do you plan it out at all or outline? 

i actually have somewhat meticulously planned out the story and most of the details in every chapter. specific chapters are a combination of those plot outlines i write, which can be anything from relatively brief to a few paragraphs, and detailed both as i go on and with the addition of various little notes i make of lines or character quirks or ideas or scenes. this has proved to be rewarding in itself even if the pace i move at is somewhat glacial lol - as this story comes to an end ive been able to write out scenes i planned out months or even years in the past. and its so dope to have an idea you flesh out and you finally get to realizing it in the actual work

 

12 hours ago, Ziggy455 said:

I'll get back with an actual critique once I've caught up with the story up until now. 

please do! also extending this to anyone else reading this, if you like what you see please feel free to leave feedback or an observation or a critique. will be super happy to see whatever you shoot back when you're caught up

[slimeball supreme]

I Won

 

Had fished it out of the waste basket the other day.

 

 

Debonaire whispers.

 

Took the tobacco soldier out his mouth and breathed cold.

 

Jake said “We’ll have men on standby.”

 

Latrell nodded.

 

“We’re gonna make a show outta’ it, cueball. ‘Bout maybe four truckloads of ESU guys. Helicopters. Can you handle that?”

 

Nodded.

 

“You can handle noise? We wanna make the f*ckin’ papers.”

 

Sucked in his cheek. “They gon’ put they hands on me?”

 

“No.”

 

“Hope not.”

 

“You get cocky, you're gonna get ya’ wishbone snapped. You ain’t gettin’ forewarned, neither, just like nobody else is. We’re gonna have you tapped the whole time, gonna have a tail on you from the jump, gonna have you mic’d up, but you ain’t gettin’ forewarned when we hit the warehouse.”

 

Out on the porch. East Island suburb bled into itself. All nameless, all Lippe County, Americana ocean. Looked out on the dead trees while the smoke billowed and back down at the sketch.

 

Jake blinked. “Your handwriting is dog sh*t, by the way.”

 

“This sh*t pops off, you gonna know, right?”

 

“We’ll know. We got eyes. We got the wire on you, means we got a live feed the whole time. But if a gun goes off, any context, we ain’t hesitatin’. It’s that simple. If we think anyone inside or at the guard booth is in danger, you touch anyone wrong, we ain’t hesitatin’. Do not do no cowboy sh*t or we’re gonna put you in cuffs like the wops.”

 

It was twenty minutes back to Phil’s place in Down Rum Junction.

 

The Disruption Team had their precinct in the heart of Old Blue.

 

East Island was white picket fences and chainlink.

 

On the drive back, he’d have to pass a cemetery.

 

Jake the jackal bore holes with his eyes.

 

Latrell said “Okay.”

 

He’d stay a little longer.

 

He needed to shake the ghosts.

 

***

 

Back to Down Rum Junction you took the train. East Island Railroad station at West Old Blue. Terminal, end of the line.

 

Pezeshkifar and Desmond would drive him that far.

 

Was okay taking the train.

 

They wouldn’t pass the cemetery.

 

He needed to shake the ghosts.

 

Wasteland. Asphalt parking lot unending while the sky turned purple. Gas stations and mall-sized boat dealerships. Trucking depot with unpainted concrete walls chipping where the rails ceased.

 

LTA signs. UnderPass card. Waited in the dark.

 

Yellow lights.

 

Hour long ride to Rum Junction station. Phil would pick him up there.

 

He didn’t ask questions.

 

Black gravel by the tracks. Snow worn through.

 

Stood there on the platform.

 

There were no seats.

 

Back in the waiting room they didn’t have heating. Couldn’t smoke in there anyway, and he wasn’t ticketed. Only ticket-holders can wait in the waiting room.

 

The sky was dead.

 

Cigarette whispered. Took a drag.

 

Had stopped listening to music a long time ago.

 

Didn’t need distractions.

 

You couldn’t hear the ghosts.

 

Latrell saw them everywhere.

 

The trains sang a song. Latrell stood alone. Tactile paving underfoot and the burbles of angry cars. Fingertips numb from the cold.

 

Exhaled.

 

Latrell was alone.

 

His eyes were open.

 

Latrell wasn’t alone.

 

The gravel shimmered.

 

Looked down at his Hinterland boots and the scuffed tarmac and the train veins cut through the ground.

 

Crouched down.

 

Looked at the snow turned to tears on the skin of the Earth.

 

Latrell wasn’t alone.

 

Slid off the platform.

 

Onto the tracks.

 

Boot crunch against the crisp ground.

 

The cigarette whispered. Latrell took a drag.

 

Crickets were singing. 

 

Paper waste and a crushed Sprunk bottle dug into the soil. Chainlink by the electrical box. Mouth agape, slightly, tongue sliding against the surface of his front teeth.

 

Looked back up. Dusk.

 

The train was coming.

 

Felt the song.

 

He hated it.
 

Every second an unending ring, alarm bells screeching.

 

Spit at the tip of his lips.

 

Wiped it.

 

Exhaled.

 

Pulled the tobacco soldier out his mouth half-charred and ran his finger along the train tracks. Gnawed fingernails and ash.

 

A cricket.

 

Beneath the platform.

 

It chirped.

 

Unlaced his boots.

 

Didn’t break eye contact.

 

Bug glared back.

 

Legs massaged the exoskeleton. It sang.

 

Held the Hinterland in his right hand.

 

Didn’t break eye contact.

 

Clap.

 

Bug stopped singing.

 

Didn’t twitch in the muck.

 

Viscera in the trenches of his boot sole.

 

The train was coming.

 

Latrell was alone.

 

***

 

Solair parked up along Sound Span.

 

Pasticceria by the tattoo parlor. Lights were off.

 

Rolled the windows up. Threw the Debonaire out onto the road.

 

Phil in a work jacket over a zipped-up sweatshirt. Ran a hand through thin hair on the empty road, cleaned his teeth with his thumb.

 

Opened the door.

 

Stepped out onto the sidewalk.

 

Snow fell.

 

Weather had alternated between snow and rain. Sleet storm. Freezing rain punching the pavement, snowflakes sticking to your face. Flash flood warnings on WSOS.

 

Shut the door.

 

Sludge slurry beneath the boots.

 

Stood in the open air amidst the empty streets.

 

Surveyed.

 

Eyes scanned. Oxygen compressor for the inlet by the Bean Machine. Minstrel. Back behind to the endless stores lining the boulevard to the fire station and the flagstone-covered office block up ahead.

 

Couldn’t make the tail.

 

Couldn’t see them.

 

Blending into the darkness, the street lights bleeding out on wet roads and black ice.

 

“Latrell?”

 

Turned back.

 

Phil with his hands in his jacket pockets. “What you doin’?”

 

Blinked. “Lookin’ for a tail, b.”

 

“Ha.”

 

Sniffed.

 

Debonaire pack clack.

 

The door at Anarkiss was open. Phil invited, Latrell entered, Jelly entered last and clacked the lock.

 

Murmuring in the back room.

 

Lights glazing the chess-board floor.

 

Phil led.

 

Door opened.

 

Warmth.

 

Kevin Cafora said “Ho–”

 

“It’s Jelly.”

 

“Ho, okay, okay. Warn yourself, huh? Warn yourself.”

 

“Warn myself?”

 

Titus with his legs crossed by the TV, shut off, “He means you f*ckin’ announce yourself and ya’ presence.”

 

Frankie. Reuben. Titus. Kevin.

 

Flannel hoodies on Frank and Reuben. Former hadn’t shaved, wore his in red. Latter in black and gray. Titus in a winter reflective jacket, orange-turned-red, ski mask layered up past the forehead made to look like a beanie. Kevin’s duck jacket, sea-green sweater underneath emblazoned with the Güffy logo: dip-diving graffiti, coarse letters.

 

Reuben, “Oofah, you took ya’ f*ckin’ time, Jelly.”

 

“Latrell’s grandpop’s in a retirement village in Old Blue.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah,” Latrell lied.

 

“Visit ya’ grandfather, say last goodbyes, some sh*t, says some f*ckin’ confidence about yuz’ f*ckin’ joint, I’ll say that, Bumpy.”

 

Frankie firmly, “Hey.”

 

Little exhale.

 

Deathly quiet.

 

Wired eyes. Corners of the room humming fluorescence, heartbeat you could feel through the floor crawling up the walls like a death rattle.

 

Deathly quiet.

 

Titus cleared his throat. “I oughta’ say, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Frankie said, “go ahead.”

 

The boxer stood.

 

Deathly quiet.

 

“I gotta say somethin’,” he said. “Right?”

 

“Yeah,” Frankie said. “That’s what they normally do. In movies, bro.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Exactly, Titus.”

 

“Okay.” He thought. “I sat down with the Whiz Kid up in Little Bay again. Sat down with my father. Reaffirmed what we said. We all know we got routines, we got this whole thing. We know this been buildin’ for a good long while, we all know ‘bout what our jobs are and how we’re gonna do this type’a thing. Okay?”

 

The room didn’t answer.

 

“Okay. We all know. We got the cars outside. That simple. It’s convoy up to Menaker Avenue. Me and Kevin’s gonna be in the behind car, the four a’ youse up front. Okay?”

 

Kevin, “I know.”

 

“We get there, we know how this is gonna go, we all got jobs, no need to pit-put around the f*ckin’ thing. That simple. We know there’s gonna be a lotta cash on site. We know that the exact number’s gonna be vacuous a’ whatever, y’know, it ain’t gonna be exact. We gonna calculate whatever swag, sell off anything like we think is gonna be worth sellin’. Affirmative?”

 

Phil, “We worked it out.”

 

“Already been decided. We’re kickin’ up straight to the administration. Thirty five percent. That’s also tax for whateva’ the f*ck you f*ckin’ maniacs been up to, make it all gravy, and if it’s a good haul, y’know, this is gonna look promisin’ for everyone involved. Okay? That means promotions. That means names might be considered, I hope. Means a good f*ckin’ Thanksgivin’ and Easter Sunday and sh*t like that. Ha.”

 

The room didn’t laugh.

 

Frankie, “No criss-crossin’. Four of us gonna hit the warehouse, split off. Me and Reuben leftways, Bumpy and Jelly on the right. Titus is gonna be on the horn, watch for controls. Kevin, you got eyes on anybody we take back to the van.”

 

“Since it’s on good authority individuals is gonna be allegedly on the site, might be armed, since this operation’s gonna be ‘Messy’. Okay?” Smirked, “Messy. You get it? Okay.”

 

“We came a long way. This been in the works a while.”

 

“And how,” Phil muttered.

 

“And on my name and my button,” Frankie said, “I promise youse, that for your loyalties to me and this thing and for not splittin’ on this thing like some pussies like Rodney Gravelli or the little f*ckin’ pipsqueak forget-his-f*ckin’-name, that there’s gonna be big things for those was involved. Maybe, Titus, maybe you’ll get ya’self straightened out, or some sh*t. But big things.”

 

“And no monkey sh*t.”

 

“Yeah, Jelly’s right, no cowboy sh*t. We don’t want no casualties unless this sh*t’s gonna be- unless it’s him or you. These guns is security. You go too rough on Tony Tollbooth and this is gonna go ugly and this sh*t’s gonna be too hot for anyone involved to do nothin’.”

 

Titus, “We don’t want no bullseyes on our backs, like a spotlight like this is- y’know, that ain’t good for nobody.”

 

“You keep ya’ head sharp. You keep the mind in the game. You keep ya’ sh*t locked up. And we come outta’ this with a lot. Okay?”

 

Beat.

 

Phil clapped. Four times.

 

Got a nod back.

 

Frankie clasped hands. Pulled them up to the face - kissed his ring finger. Exhaled. “Let’s do this f*ckin’ thing.”

 

Masks.

 

Knit balaclavas. Winter pattern. A red crown marked by white zig-zags on Frankie’s head. Christmas greens.

 

Phil handed Latrell’s over. Red rings around the mouth and eye holes.

 

Slid it on.

 

Oppressive. Had to adjust it, his eyes covered, left eye peeking through the mouth hole until it was affixed.

 

Like his face was penned into itself. 

 

Titus opened the broom closet.

 

Guns.

 

All of them used 9mm. No confusion.

 

Frankie’s Deadeye Carbine. Pistol caliber. Magazine in the handle. Tucked the Chitarra MP into the inside pocket of his hoodie.

 

Reuben’s Pedernal 2JD. Mexican submachine. Knock-off Yutzi looking thing. Vom Feuer ZHW, rubber grips, police standard.

 

Phil’s Chitarra SvP Incubo. Fat stock. Picatinny rail. Magazine in the handle. Reliable choice. Deadeye pistol sidearm with the big brick barrel, disposable choice, hoodlum choice, cheap choice.

 

Kevin’s NAC-5. Tactical strap, had the thing around his neck like a medallion. Heavy. Saw it in movies.

 

Titus’s simple work. Compact Kreuger DARC. Double action rubber framed in black stainless steel. Didn’t need anything more.

 

Latrell. Beideco 89-SJZ. Star on the grip. Chinese. Black, cheap, ring around the trigger guard Latrell couldn’t remove. Logan gave Latrell his money back after he’d bought it with the rest. The others wouldn’t get refunds.

 

Had a couple dozen boxes of ammunition in the back of the second van. Pre-loaded magazines. Kevin had spent the night doing it himself.

 

Nine by nineteen army. Para bellum.

 

Weapon clack.

 

Platoon shuffling.

 

Rear door opened out onto the parking lot.

 

Latrell’s sick had washed away with the downpour a long time ago. Mixed into the filth. Disappeared.

 

Nobody knew. Except the ghosts.

 

Vans parked up in a neat little row. Gunmetal in the rear, red in the front. Weather had gotten worse. Mud slurry, rear store light above the door peeking out over the accumulated snow, washing it green.

 

Hustled in the night through the sleet and the rain stabbing the world. Back doors opened, rear lights switched on, stepping through the lightblood and the slush.

 

Engines started.

 

Reuben drove.

 

Weapon clack. Tobacco clack.

 

Wheels dug into the ground. Slashed the snow’s flesh, gray cement and cracked lines and weeds.

 

They rode.

 

The rear gates had been opened.

 

Red van turned off onto Sound Span.

 

No music.

 

Eerie.

 

Would be half an hour to Pier 14.

 

Silence except the engine and the indicator blink and the sleet.

 

Darkness. 

 

Had the lights switched off inside. Had the windscreen wipers thumping at the sleet and the lights flooding in through the rain scars. The passing yellows, the passing reds, dyeing the masks through the disappearing city.

 

Two lanes on Sound Span.

 

They’d turn onto the Baldric Parkway.

 

Encircle Broker before cutting through East Hook’s jugular.

 

Blackened eyes and breath fog.

 

Turned off Sound Span onto the Baldric.

 

Nobody sat next to Reuben in the driving cab. Frankie and Phil had taken the foldout rear seats. Latrell hadn’t. Sat on the growling floor, diamond plate metal turned little jutting knives into the trackpants and the winter gloves. Kept Latrell alert.

 

Alertness a miasma in the car. Sleet screaming on the windshield, the back door windows.

 

Peeked through.

 

Darkness.

 

Faded headlight spirits on the slick winding tail, the coiling snake of the Parkway around the borough. The snow breaking into thunder. Into clapping, torrential snarl. Slapping the doors, slapping the roof, the wisping traffic turned to yellow, turned to white. Black streaks and dead trees sticking their skinny wrists into the void.

 

Crossed the creek. East Liberty. Neighborhood of ghosts. The project buildings across the water in Salmond City; concrete tombstones. Opportunities laid to rest, the creek opening out into the greater Wampum Bay over state park hills. Grass would be brown in the light. Was dark, dead in the night.

 

Reuben coughed.

 

Out a thousand miles away, Algonquin’s skyline stood tall. Lowrise Broker skyline was dip-diving projects, stood modest. Birds lost in the swamp.

 

The world loomed and the ghosts followed. But Latrell couldn’t spot the cop tail.

 

He was alert. His eyes betrayed him. Every headlight looked the same in the mess.

 

Neck snapped forward.

 

Frankie staring at the floor.

 

It was silent in the van.

 

The world was loud. It was deathly quiet.

 

Frankie’s mask betrayed him. His eyes were too distinct. They were not empty, they were alive. They were darting, waving like he was reading the aluminum floor. Rituals in his head, controlled breathing. His eyes were greedy. His eyes were confident, ignorant. Tennis match of deceit in his head, gloved hands rubbing. Adjusted the hem of his gloves, felt the wet knees of his jeans, gun at the ready.

 

Phil looked at Latrell.

 

Only for a second.

 

Latrell looked to Phil.

 

He didn’t meet his gaze.

 

Hazel eyes were the marshland where the seagulls picked at the scraps of dead fish along the riverbed. The stink of rotting mud and decaying flesh through gentle reeds. Desperation in his eyes. His eyes were polluted, factories belching black smoke, robbed of purity, lives left to be lived in stolen tatters. There was a sad boy in his eyes. A lost puppy.

 

Phil knew Latrell was looking. Latrell knew he knew.

 

Phil didn’t look back.

 

Up ahead. Time had crashed into itself. Slow and fast simultaneously, the moments creeping as slow as they sped by on shrieking asphalt.

 

Past Maschapi and past Hansen Basin where the Baldric did an S-curl, the ruins of the Byrd Aerodrome sinking into the silt of Wampum - Firefly Island waited.

 

Reuben’s gaze in the rear mirror.

 

He was a pig.

 

He was a goat. A farm animal. He was a paranoid dog wary of passersby, he was a cow with blank eyes chewing cud. He was on a leash. He was a thug. He was nothing but cruel reaction and spit on the ground.

 

The road split through the end of Goatherd. Onto Hove Beach.

 

Latrell dreaded Hove Beach; the porcelain duck, the pill-popping gangster and popped safe in his Beachgate blue blood mansion. 

 

Latrell felt his ghost.

 

Latrell dreaded Firefly Island Creek; dreaded the 69th Street Diner he’d parked his stolen van near, the self-storage center where Knot left with a star carved into his head.

 

Latrell felt his ghost.

 

Latrell dreaded Anger Bay; dreaded a Bolt Burger with a burnt Italian in the seat of his car, blood in his coffee. Dreaded Xavier’s wrists pushed to the ground by jackboot heel and metal cuffs.

 

Latrell felt their ghosts.

 

Latrell dreaded Bantonvale; dreaded the panini parlor coffee house where an Albanian man signed a bookie’s death warrant. Who would find himself dead with innocent souls in a Bohan restaurant on Morgan Avenue.

 

Latrell felt their ghosts.

 

They were failures.

 

They were laughing at him. Dreaded Lennox Island, a demented caporegime. Dreaded Weir Ridge, overextended federals with disapproving glances.

 

Dreaded the port. Double E Motors, the Lozano brothers, lost to time. A penitent stevedore executed on the border of Dukes. His grandmother’s throat slit. Two brothers and a goon left drying in a morgue.

 

Latrell dreaded Liberty City.

 

It was a town of ghosts.

 

It was eating him.

 

***

 

The Liberty State Lotto had hit three hundred and thirty three million dollars.

 

Saw the billboard above the caverns of the Broker-Garden Tunnel. Rusted corrugated metal walls, skin of graffiti, filthy building renovations and a playground without equipment. Maze Bank branch housed in an old apartment. Green-tipped church steeple blocks off, clock ticking.

 

Menaker Avenue.

 

The vans were in formation.

 

East Hook Terminal entrance.

 

Reuben howled “Yo,” smacked the dash and impotently repeated “Yo!”

 

Frankie, “You ready?”

 

“It’s happening.”

 

“You two ready?”

 

“Yes,” Phil said.

 

Latrell met Frankie’s eyes.

 

Rain clapped the roof.

 

“I’m ready,” Latrell said.

 

Coil electric car showroom to the left. Horizon of dock crane skeletons and container coffins.

 

Had been pressing his legs against his chest. Been sitting with the gun in his lap. Waiting.

 

No more.

 

Latrell was alert.

 

On his feet. Crouched in the shadow.

 

Reuben had peeled his mask up. Make-do beanie.

 

Van passed through the gate.

 

“Quiet!”

 

“Shh!”

 

Sleet cratering the windshield, cratering the roof going ding-ding-dinging like the van was made of tin. Hell mashing.

 

Toll booth. Lights on.

 

Van slowed.

 

Latrell’s foot tapped.

 

Twitched.

 

Shadowed faces in the black.

 

Van stopped.

 

Yellow reflective vest opened the door out the toll booth. Hood over his head, clipboard, hustle through the mist. Little mustache, latino.

 

Knew there was a second in the booth.
 

Driver’s side.

 

Toll man tapped the window.

 

Reuben glared at him.

 

Toll man tapped again.

 

Rolled the window down. “Yeah?”

 

“Hey, buddy-man,” Toll man spat, “Hey, whaddya’ doin’, man? You got your TWIC card? You ain’t–”

 

“I need you to stay there.”

 

Blinked. “Huh?”

 

Reuben glared.

 

Toll man used the flat side of his clipboard like an umbrella. Repeated, “Whaddya’ doin’?”

 

Real slow.

 

Reuben pulled his gun.

 

Waist level. Real slow, up to the chest. “Do not say a word.”

 

Toll man looked at the gun.

 

He did not say a word.

 

Frankie rose. Balaclava on.

 

Behind Reuben with the Deadeye Carbine in both hands. “We know your name,” he lied. “Repeat it. Don’t lie.”

 

Long beat.

 

Toll man didn’t break eye contact with the gun barrel. “I… i-... uh, Gonzalo.”

 

“Listen close,” Frankie didn’t raise his voice. “One of my friends is headed for the booth, Gonzalo. He’s gonna turn the cameras off. I need you to come around to the back of the van. My goombata here, he has zip ties. Okay?”

 

“Okay.”

 

“He’s gonna tie ya’ wrists up. Ya’ then gonna go to the van right behind us, and another friend will tie up youse ankles. Okay?”

 

He nodded.

 

“One of our friends is already up doing this to ya’ buddy in the booth. He’s gonna be turning off the toll cameras, and he’s going to shut the gate. Repeat your partner’s name to me. Do not lie to me. I will kill you.”

 

“Anthony.”

 

“You and Anthony are gonna be in the back van. You will be restrained. Any other guys we find, we’re gonna tie ‘em up. We got a thousand flex cuffs. If you stay calm, Gonzalo, we ain’t even gonna touch a hair on youse heads. Alright?”

 

“O- okay, okay. Okay.”

 

“You raise any alarm, you raise your voice, then believe me. We know how to get your family together. And it ain’t gonna be a reunion.”

 

Blinked.

 

The gate to the port opened.

 

Man marched out of the booth. Hands tied behind his back.

 

Reuben, “Head around back.”

 

Frankie, “Don’t run.”

 

“If you run, you gotta have brains like rock salad, huh? You ain’t gonna make it a foot.”

 

“I don’t,” Gonzalo said.

 

Reuben glared.

 

Gonzalo turned.

 

Walked.

 

Precious few seconds.

 

Back doors opened.

 

Man stood there.

 

Phil. Stood in the cramped confines, pulled the ties out his jacket.

 

Toll man’s face. Mustache, a little pimpled, pockmarked cheeks and dark ringed eyes. Gingerly placed the clipboard on the floor of the van. Tainted by the water, ink and printed parchment turned to muck.

 

Gonzalo held his hands out.

 

“It’ll be quick,” Phil whispered. “They’re just cable ties.”

 

He nodded back.

 

Snap.

 

Hands together.

 

Frankie, “‘Round the back, now, ‘round the back.”

 

Stepped backwards.

 

Didn’t turn.

 

Latrell stared.

 

Eyes met.

 

Gonzalo’s eyes were screaming.

 

Latrell’s were still. Still as death.

 

Was a long second they matched.

 

And Gonzalo turned, hands at his waist, and went for the car.

 

Rain groaning. The groans almost a purr.

 

Engine flitter.

 

Gonzalo rounded the back.

 

Rain groaned. Could see Titus, mask on, head turned.

 

Seconds passed.

 

Titus turned back.

 

Opened his door.

 

Put his foot out on the road, on the grit shower and the water turning the dust thick. He waved.

 

Shut the door.

 

Frankie, “He’s done.”

 

Reuben, “Okay, okay, okay–”

 

“Hit it.”

 

Gas.

 

East Hook docks.

 

Looked out the back window at Titus looking on. Rolled past the toll, past the open gate, big bright blue building flanked by parking lots on both sides. Big rigs - sleeping giants - curled around faded yellow light.

 

Wind whipping. Screeching of the windshield wipers, flecks of snow sticking to the glass while the rain and the wiper blades beat.

 

Stacked shipping containers. Three or four storeys of white and red and blue: Jetsam, Bilgeco, Lando-Corp logos. Ribbed, darkness in craters.

 

Van rode by potholes.

 

The dock cranes.

 

Skeletons of industry. Goliaths.

 

Algonquin.

 

Algonquin skyscrapers lit up like fireworks. Blinking window lights. Glass fortresses across the Humboldt, concrete and steel and greened copper spires.

 

The world loomed. You could see Liberty’s bones through the speckled sky.

 

The road was unmarked.

 

Latrell pointed, “Pier 14.”

 

“I see it.” Reuben sniffed, “What the f*ck you take me for? I see it.”

 

Neck snapped behind. The trailing van.

 

Couldn’t see the tail.

 

Looked through the blacktop desert and the container cliffs and couldn’t spot waiting cars, waiting cops, waiting law. The ghosts in his peripheral flailing with the rain and the blinking light.

 

Back ahead.

 

The pebble brick building. Records. Stairs. Frogface.

 

Latrell’s ears were ringing.

 

Van drove.

 

Van drove.

 

Foot tapping.

 

Drove.

 

Couldn’t smoke.

 

Couldn’t think.

 

Foot tapping.

 

Jolted.

 

Tire screech.

 

Van stopped.

 

Wordlessly, fluidly, back doors flew open, driver side door almost kicked down. Reuben out with the Pedernal in both hands, door ajar, boots behind Latrell clapping into the waterlogged ground.

 

Go.

 

Go.

 

Latrell went.

 

Head out in the sky.

 

The night, eyes adjusting, water catching on the fleece. Pelting down.

 

Fists rapping on the metal walls, adrenalin. Para bellum platoon in formation - Titus out with the gun, with vicious vulgar eyes, slap-slapping the side of the red van.

 

Frankie’s flannel hoodie getting soaked through by the deluge. Unzipped, wet white shirt showing skin and hair pushing against fabric. Roaring over the angry sky, “We ready?!”

 

“Okay!”

 

“Okay!”

 

Clapping rain, clapping thunder, snow specks and ice sticking to the masks. Phil, “We go right!”

 

“Bumpy and Rusty left! Me and–”

 

“No, right!”

 

“Right! You and him goes right! We left! Okay?”

 

Could barely hear.

 

Kevin passed out magazines. Wet, brass bullet glint, beads of raindrops sticking, slotted into jacket pockets. Passed Frankie a halligan bar, passed Phil a rubber-grip mini sledge.

 

Amassed.

 

Shouting.

 

Inaudible. Indiscernible.

 

Frankie pointed.

 

Latrell didn’t hear.

 

Frankie turned.

 

Marched.

 

Moving. 

 

Kevin and Titus stayed behind.

 

Para bellum platoon followed.

 

Commander Frankie. Heavy soles, stomping, puddles up above the soles of his shoes, splashback cascading over jean cuffs. Masks made bald heads: made every head slick, made every head a shark fin.

 

Algonquin skyscraper lights reflecting on the ground.

 

Like wading through the city’s vomit.

 

Door.

 

Door.

 

Front side of Pier 14 was not an option. Trucks lined up in a pretty row in front of the loading bay, chained up doors under the shelter. Couldn’t open with a crowbar.

 

Rounded to the side - the south side, the left side, the side facing the lapping Humboldt - past the rigs.

 

Security cameras were only at the bay.

 

Big blue door. Remembered that from Duplex Earth; had studied the building religiously. Remembered camping out by the records building with Ramon, Ramon’s ghost on Latrell’s shoulders, Ramon the specter’s dead fingers pulling the phone out and pointing.

 

“Them little doors on the left,” he was purring from Hell. “You see it?”

 

“Uh…” Latrell stutter stopped, “Yeah, yeah, I see it.”

 

Thunder clap.

 

“Who you talkin’ to?”

 

“Frankie,” Latrell said. “The doors.”

 

“I see the doors, I see the doors.”

 

“The latch.”

 

Blue doors.

 

Red metal latch. Thick.

 

“Breach!”

 

“Breach it, break the f*ckin’, break–”

 

Phil stepped back.

 

Crack.

 

Crack.

 

Crack.

 

Beat the latch off its hinge, beat it to the ground. Picked it up with gloved hands and woosh, tossed it in the water.

 

Clunk.

 

Door was metal.

 

Frankie inserted the halligan bar, pick end into the crack. “Yo Reuben, cugine, get this–”

 

“A’ight, Cheech, don’t worry.”

 

Pushed down. Helped apply force.

 

Heaved.

 

Latrell looked back.

 

Watched for police. Watched for ghosts.

 

The rain was thicker than mud.

 

Clunk.

 

Door opened. Paint flecks slithering down with the rain digging marks groundways.

 

“It’s pissin’, andiamo, guns’ll f*ckin’ jam–”

 

“Move it–”

 

Left the door open.

 

Lights were on.

 

White halogen light swamping on epoxy coated concrete. Hard shadows filtering through warehouse racking: pallets, boxes in plastic wrap pantyhose. Bootprint grime, mixed with city soot, mixed with the snow and the rain. More shine.

 

Lights on.

 

Forklift. Idle. Off.

 

Frankie brought his index up to his lips and kissed it.

 

Meant ‘shut the f*ck up’.

 

Forward.

 

Clear corridors. Not a maze; all too clear. Walls of racking and shelf-packing, never-ending, tediously maintained. Straight forward through the warehousing of the complex, where the truckers moved what stevedores moved. No bodies. No security.

 

Platoon marched. Diamond formation: Latrell at the back, Frankie leading.

 

Rack.

 

Rack.

 

Rack.

 

Another forklift.

 

Halogen burns and rain drying.

 

Doors. Narrow space, light at the end of a tunnel of cardboard and steel supports.

 

Frankie stopped.

 

Reached.

 

Click.

 

Unlocked.

 

Door slow moaning forward.

 

Sleet again.

 

Opened into half a dry dock.

 

Salt.

 

Rust.

 

Sleet.

 

Sleet blowing through into open space with stacked shipping cans. Dock too shallow for a container ship - maybe barges, maybe little boats.

 

Felt seasick on the unpolished cement with the stairs up to the second floor overhead. Felt like something had fermented, and rotted, and died here. Felt the salt in his f*cking gums, in his f*cking teeth. Checked for exits and clocked two more doors to the left, likely matched on the right.

 

Checked the sky opened up to the skyscrapers and the skyline for the sky birds, sky cops, sky ghosts.

 

Frankie snapped his fingers.

 

Signaled left. Then signaled right.

 

Phil nodded.

 

The chatter of metal like teeth rattling.

 

Reuben led up the stairs directly ahead. 

 

Phil moved.

 

Latrell followed.

 

Phil with gusto. Shipping cans on each other’s shoulders offering shelter, then breaking, then the sleet beating through, then the flecks sticking on Latrell’s eyes, Latrell’s lips, Latrell’s knit mask and Latrell’s gat.

 

“You think there’ll be somethin’ in the containers?” Phil wondered aloud. Hushed. Mini sledge in his hand, SvP in the other, Deadeye stuffed in his coat.

 

Stairs on the other side of the dock.

 

Latrell didn’t reply.

 

Frost.

 

Clambered a moment, but stopped. Footfalls too loud.

 

Blinked.

 

Phil slowed.

 

Gentle.

 

Stairs filtered as they moved up the floor. Walls grew out from barriers, sprouted into doors with frosted glass and clean handles.

 

Clean handles.

 

Frosted door, unfrosted handles.

 

Phil looked back.

 

Met Latrell’s eyes.

 

Latrell nodded.

 

Slowly, felt the knob.

 

Pushed.

 

No noise.

 

Whispers.

 

Talking.

 

Talking.

 

Shoes on carpeted flooring. Made out prints. Clean and dirty all at once.

 

Phil crouched.

 

Traced it forward.

 

Gingerly placed the mini sledge down on the carpet. 

 

Stood. SvP in both hands, trained at the path. Path leading forward past empty lunch tables and coffee stains and crates with federal markings.

 

Office.

 

Glass.

 

Door.

 

Voices.

 

Crept closer.

 

Voices.

 

Blathering f*cking gibberish. Nonsensical. Crept closer, voices made less sense.

 

Blinked.

 

Clicked.

 

“Так это в любой день сейчас?”

 

“Да, по существу. Вот почему я отправил Игнатиуса во Флориду. Чтобы убедиться, что все идет по плану с бананами и всем остальным.”

 

“Это хорошо. Слово пришло от Бенни?”

 

Russian.

 

“Бенни, Рами и Вселенная. Мы продвигаемся вперед.”

 

Goddamn Russian.

 

“И затем, после этого, он появится... может быть, в середине февраля.”

 

Phil, “You hear that?”

 

“No doubt.”

 

“Я прокляну этого Максима навсегда. Это педераст-сутенер и его узбекские насильники. Я видел этого парня здесь, когда мы встретились со спагетти-головами.”

 

“Okay? Gimme five. We move.”

 

“A’ight, a’ight.”

 

Hand out. Five fingers.

 

“Эти ребята, они очень... я не знаю этого слова. По-английски вы их называете... ну, это что-то вроде–”

 

Four.

 

Three.

 

“Вот тебе и продуктовый бизнес. Если вы хотите заполнить полки, вы должны играть их песни.”

 

Two.

 

Phil stood.

 

One.

 

Primed foot.

 

“Не так, как это работает дома, это правда–”

 

Bang.

 

Splintered.

 

All eyes on the light flooding into a darkened room.

 

“Hands! Hands! Hands”

 

“Lemme f*ckin’ see ‘em! Hands up, son!”

 

Room’s only light was blue monitor LED.

 

Phil kicked it off the desk.

 

One of them jumped.

 

Screen shattered.

 

All stood.

 

Faces melded, mashed, crushed under dim light.

 

Four.

 

Gun right in the mug of one, big one. Death breath, teeth like cashews, grayed receded Caesar and Neanderthal features.

 

Grabbed him by the scruff.

 

Pushed him down.

 

“Ты, должно быть, чертовски шутишь!”

 

Others standing.

 

“Lemme’- c’mon, f*ckhead, c’mon!”

 

Drinkingware out. Pilsner glasses, quarter full; bottle of Vermouth white wine. Qualunque brand. Eyes to the table legs, big two liter bottle of eCola. Half empty.

 

Glass fell over.

 

“Это было хорошее вино! Сукин с–”

 

“Shut up!” Phil shouted, “Shut the f*ck up! Shut up!”

 

“On the ground! Hands up, b, on the ground, get ‘em down or get wet the f*ck up–”

 

“Keep it trained.”

 

Zip ties. Out the jacket.

 

One of four spat. Not neanderthal - another hard-faced Russian with jet black hair, “Вы какие-то нервные хуесосы, да?”

 

“Dead the talkin’! Dead it!”

 

Phil, “You people know Gordy Blinks? Who’s with Blinks? You with Blinks?!” Hand down on the ankles of the eldest in the room: slender face and sharp cheeks, Asiatic eyes. “Not so f*ckin’ chatty now?”

 

“О чем, черт возьми, он говорит? Кто моргает?”

 

“Shut up! Russian, speak English!”

 

“Геннадий,” Neanderthal going with hands on head, “Я не знаю, что, черт возьми, происходит–”

 

“English! English! When the f*ck does Gordy ever done worked with Russians?”

 

Latrell, “I don’t know–”

 

Phil stopped.

 

Crack.

 

Across the old one’s dome with the butt of the gun.

 

“Блядь! Ты педик!”

 

Blood.

 

“Gesundheit.” Clipped. Tied, moved on, “Latrell, you know these Blinks’ guys were Russian?”

 

“I didn’t,” he lied.

 

“Who the hell am I, Sonny Honorato, dealin’ with Russians, what the f*ck is this? Some f*ckin’- throwback ass–”

 

Jet black, “Он знает Сонни Онорато?”

 

“Say that again! I heard his name! You know him?”

 

Russian didn’t even flinch, “You suck my cock–”

 

Grabbed the pilsner glass.

 

Smashed it on his head.

 

Didn’t curse.

 

Took it like a man. 

 

This ugly grunt, grit his teeth, white wine in his hair, no blood. Exhaled. “Это вино стоит двадцать долларов, Захар. Это было нехорошее вино.”

 

“What?!”

 

Closest to Latrell, “Если ты так любишь газировку–”

 

“Shut up! Shut up! Stop the monkeys-on-the-bed sh*t! Shut up!”

 

Latrell, “One more word, son, dead the buggin’ son, or I’m gonna f*ckin’ dead you, b.” Gun to the closest one’s back, right in the spinal lumps, “I’m gonna cripple you, you speak, bitch, keep wylin’ I’mma kill–”

 

“Keep it goin’!” Had tied up the third one, Neanderthal, pushed his head into the carpet and moved onto Latrell’s. “How we gonna get them down?”

 

Stopped. “What?”

 

“To the van.”

 

“What?”

 

“I tied up their ankles, I tied up their wrists, we got enough ties for a tailor. How we gonna get them down to the van?”

 

“You me- wh- what? You mean the–”

 

“Latrell.”

 

“You mean Kevin and Rodn–”

 

“Don’t say their names!”

 

“Kevi- can it- I mean–”

 

“They can’t walk, Latrell! Did we- did you not–”

 

“Hold on–”

 

“Did we not think–?”

 

“Hold on!”

 

“Latrell- I–”

 

“Don’t bitch–”

 

Phil stood up, Russian tied, “What are we gonna do with these pricks?”

 

“Ask them where they keep the sh*t.”

 

“What sh*t?”

 

“What?”

 

“What are we taking- what are we asking to take?!”

 

Latrell didn’t know. “Stop.”

 

“Stop what?”

 

“Stop talking–”

 

“Ask–”

 

“Bitch!” To the Russian on the floor, “Son, you- where you keep the sh*t?”

 

“Where are the Messina guys? Are these Messina guys?”

 

“Are you Messina guys?” Foot tapping, “Where’s the stuff?!”

 

Russian grumbled “What the hell are you talking about?!”

 

“Dope,” Latrell assumed, “and liquid cash! Liquid cash! You got money?”

 

Phil said “You want their wallets?”

 

“Take they wallets, Philly, take they wallets!”

 

Freaking out. Freaking out, Phil to the floor, patting down the slacks and shifting hands into jacket pockets. Phil adjusting the balaclava, breath manic, “Where’s your wallet?!”

 

“Where you keep the drugs?!”

 

Old one, “Drugs?!”

 

“Yeah, nigga, drugs, son, heroin or meth or cocaine?”

 

“Are you crazy?!”

 

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”

 

Phil, “Zakhar Zilberfarb!” Wallet out, license glinting light, “Zakhar Zilberfarb!”

 

“Okay?!”

 

“I know your name! I know it!” Pulled the card out and held it up to his face, “You make a move, I’m gonna know your kids. I’m gonna know your kids! Where are you keeping the f*cking drugs?”

 

“Вы чертовы дураки!”

 

“English! English! English!”

 

Asiatic eyes, blood dribbling down his neck, “What the fuuuck are you f*cking talking about?!”

 

“You niggas deadass got some sh*t come the f*ck in on a boat–”

 

“How you kn-” caught himself, “sh- f*ck–”

 

Too late.

 

Phil trained the gat. “Yeah?”

 

“Loose lips, son, you got some mad loose lips–”

 

“What’s your name?”

 

Didn’t reply.

 

Gun cocked.

 

At his dome.

 

Squirming in the zip ties. “What’s your name, dickhead?”

 

“Go the f*ck off–”

 

Grabbed him hard. Grabbed the inside of his jacket, half-ripped it off and turned it inside out stuck on the sleeves. “Name! Name!” Grabbed at his pockets, felt inside the pants.

 

Wallet.

 

“It’s not here!” Russian yelled.

 

“Gennady Roitman,” Phil said. “Where is it?”

 

Zakhar, “The Antilles, you f*cking idiot!”

 

“The what?” Pulled the card out the wallet, “The what? Where? Speak English!”

 

“Antilles, Antilles–”

 

Latrell, “English!”

 

“It’s on the f*cking ocean! You retards! Whoever the f*ck- you retards!”

 

Gennady, “Они собираются вернуться.”

 

“Отвали, Гена!”

 

Phil’s eyes dry through the balaclava. Winter pattern waltzing with his face. “The ocean?”

 

“The ocean,” Zakhar frantic, “the ocean!”

 

“Бенни убьет тебя!”

 

“Shut the f*ck up, Alonso! It’s not f*cking here!”

 

“I’m gonna kill this nigga,” gun on Zakhar’s back, “you keep f*cking lying.”

 

“I’m not!”

 

“Shut up! You are! You are! Phil, this dude a f*ckin’ lyin’ ass bitch, where the f*ck the drugs?!”

 

“Why the f*ck we keep drugs here?!”

 

“Shut up! Shut the f*ck up, son!”

 

Phil, “Didn’t you say the boat was here, Latrell?”

 

“Shut up! Stop the lying! Stop it!”

 

“Latrell, you said it was here–”

 

“Don’t jugg my sh*t, son, don’t jugg me, son–”

 

“What the f*ck are we doing?!”

 

“I’m gonna kill–”

 

“If it ain’t come yet, what’re we here for?!”

 

“Shut your faggot ass up, Phil!”

 

“What?!”

 

“Shut uuuupp!! ShhuuuTTT UPPP!!” Screaming, roaring, “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Shut the f*ck up shut UP! Where the f*ck you keep the money?!”

 

Neanderthal, “Этот черномазый чертовски отсталый–”

 

“I’m gon’ f*ckin’–” grabbed the bottle, the bottle of eCola, threw the cap.

 

Phil grabbed him.

 

Latrell upturned.

 

Soda.

 

Phil clenching his wrist, pushing him to the wall.

 

Soda bottle spray. Soda spew on the carpet and the nice Russian suits and Latrell yowled.

 

Animal screech.

 

Kicked the bottle.

 

Pushed Phil away. Phil grabbing at his arms, “Calm down–”

 

“Shut up, r*tard! Shut up, you f*cking pussy!”

 

Kicked at his shins.

 

Phil held tighter.

 

Latrell pulled.

 

Pulled.

 

Smack.

 

Slapped Phil in the f*cking face.

 

Stumbled back.

 

Nearly tripped.

 

“I heard you call me a nigger!”

 

Heart beat.

 

Heart beat.

 

Heart beat.

 

Phil blinked.

 

Room silent.

 

Latrell pulled his gun and shot a hole in the wall.

 

Ducked.

 

Shouted.

 

Phil behind the desk, glasses tipped, Russians bleating, bleating, bleating.

 

Sirens.

 

Sirens.

 

Sirens.

 

“You’re a bastard!” Screaming over screaming sirens, “Bastard! Bastard! Your poppy had you outta wedlock, b, you a bitch! You a bastard!”

 

Phil screaming “What?!”

 

“Bastard!”

 

“Latrell?!”

 

“Stop talking sh*t, stop questioning, son, shut uuuupppppPPPPP SHUT UPPPP!!”

 

Turned on his heel.

 

Door open.

 

“Here! Here! Here!”

 

“Latrell?!”

 

Stormed out.

 

Storm ranging.

 

Thunderstorm footsteps.

 

“Latrell! What the f*ck?!”

 

“I know! I know you said it, you bastard!”

 

“I didn’t! I promise, I didn’t!”

 

Pointing in the hallway, throat of the stairs, “You did! I know! And you looked me up on the internet, f*ck you, I looked you up!”

 

“I’m sorry, Latrell.”

 

“You a punk! You a punk, you bastard. Daddy had you he was sixteen, nigga, you the bastard.”

 

“I’m sorry! Whatever I did, Latrell, please! I’m sorry!”

 

Latrell stopped.

 

Tore his mask off.

 

Face pulsating. Hot.

 

“Latrell!”

 

Footsteps.

 

Footsteps.

 

Clambering.

 

Clang.

 

Clang.

 

Clang.

 

Latrell tossed the gun.

 

Hands high.

 

Phil stared.

 

ESU.

 

Windbreaker flitting. Soaked, raindrop polka dots.

 

FIB.

 

Christopher Perez.

 

“He’s with me!” Agent going, “He’s with me!”

 

Latrell’s hands up.

 

Phil stopped.

 

Phil blinked.

 

Phil breathed.

 

ESU. Tactical team monsters in riot gear, carbines trained, LCPD in big black letters.

 

Phil dropped the gun.

 

Hands in the sky.

 

“Don’t move!”

 

“Hands! Hands up!”

 

Latrell standing there.

 

Arms up.

 

Spread them wide. 

 

Grinned.

 

“Out the f*ckin’ way!”

 

Men with carbines stormed, thunderclap boots on the carpet, knocked past Latrell, pushed him aside.

 

Into the wall. 

 

His arms back down. Jutting shoulder blades bang, into the board, rustling the studs, soldier SWAT blasting past.

 

Felt their gear bristle on him.

 

They didn’t even look.

 

Latrell had the biggest smile in the world.

 

The biggest.

 

“On the f*cking ground!”

 

“Ground! Ground!”

 

Guns on Phil.

 

“Ground!”

 

Big guy, leader-man, had his arm out.

 

Pushed Phil to the f*cking ground.

 

Other grabbed him by the neck, another pulled his arms right behind him. First extended two fingers, dug them into the eye holes, ripped the mask clean off and shoved his mug back.

 

“Don’t move, scumbag!”

 

Pulled the Deadeye pistol out his belt and tossed it on the ground.

 

“What’re you doin’?! What’re you doin’?! Get down, bitch!”

 

Phil’s eyes dry.

 

Hair matted to his face. Loose stinking thin strands down on pale skin turned red, not blushing - hand against his face, shoved him back to the ground. Fourth cop grabbed him by the hair, pulled him up, second slapped him in the f*cking face.

 

Snot dribble.

 

Eyes red. Eyes dry.

 

A million mile stare, eyes connecting with nothing.

 

Latrell had the biggest smile in the world.

 

The biggest.

 

“We need to go.” Snap snap, vocal gunshots in his ear, “Latrell. Latrell.”

 

“What?”

 

“We need to go,” Chris chirping. “We need to go. They’re gonna ID you.”

 

“ID what?”

 

“They’re gonna know you’re a f*cking informant–”

 

“I do something wrong?”

 

“Latrell–”

 

Latrell stood aside.

 

Took his jacket off. One sleeve, held eye contact with Chris, tore the other one off.

 

Threw it to the ground.

 

“I do something wrong?” Grinning. “I didn’t.”

 

“You didn’t–”

 

“Didn’t what?” Slid his arm back down his right sleeve. “What?”

 

“We need to go.”

 

“Hey! Hey!” Smiling at Phil, slid his other arm through.

 

Pulled his shirt off.

 

Wet.

 

Slammed it on the ground.

 

“Philly! What’s poppin’, Philly?!”

 

Phil wasn’t looking.

 

Latrell pulled the wire out the shirt. 

 

Little teabag-sized pouch in his jacket. Felt like it was full of pennies.

 

Stepped toward him.

 

Chris yelling “Latrell!”

 

“Hey, r*tard! Hey, r*tard! Hey, Philly! Hey, Rusty!”

 

Police got him on his feet.

 

“You see this, Phil?!” Held the wire between two fingertips. Other hand grabbed the other end, stretched it out in front of his face. “You f*cking moron!”

 

Phil wasn’t looking.

 

“I was mic’d up! You dumb f*cking bastard f*cking faggot! You see this?!”

 

Pushed Phil forward.

 

Russian chatter.

 

“I never got jumped, you punk bitch! Never! Never, son, never, I never done sh*t! I’m god of you, nigga, I’m your god! I won, you dumb f*ck–”

 

ESU, “Step the f*ck aside–”

 

“He hear me?!”

 

“Yo! Step back!”

 

Latrell followed, followed the four men - two in the back clenching Phil’s cuffed arms, one ahead with the carbine, last flanking, Latrell said “I won! I remember what you said at the cemetery!”

 

“Step back!”

 

Door opened.

 

Down stairs.

 

“I remember what the ghosts was saying, Phil, I remember, you dumb motherf*cker, you think I think you anything, son, you think I give a f*ck about you?”

 

Clambering.

 

Clang clang clang. “You think I got jumped, you stupid bitch, you believe everything! Yeah, son, you get cut up by some–”

 

“Step back!”

 

“Shut up!” Felt the sleet on his face, “You wanna know some sh*t, bitch, I was wired for f*ckin’ sou–”

 

Chris Perez, “Shut the f*ck up!”

 

“Hey! Hey!” Turned around on the stairs walking backwards, “We was at the place in Weir Ridge by the golf course–”

 

“Latrell–”

 

“We had that big ass whiteboard, nigga, guess who weren’t on it?!”

 

“Latrell!”

 

“I got that note still, too, son, I was watchin’ that sh*t- oh! Oh! You wanna–” stumbled, stuttered, feet stopped backing up when the stairs ended. Concrete. “Dumb f*cking r*tard insult!”

 

ESU screaming “Back up–”

 

“Where the f*cking wop niggas at, where them–”

 

“Back up!”

 

Cops.

 

Sea of pigs.

 

Blue windbreakers everywhere, yellow letters emblazoned in a dozen fonts.

 

Helicopter drum.

 

Clang.

 

Boots. Jackboots and screaming.

 

“I won!”

 

Rustle of guns, rustle of coats.

 

“Latrell!”

 

Eyes.

 

At the dry dock. Lined up, on their knees, cuffs.

 

The nine by nineteen army.

 

Masks ripped off. Rain sticking to hot faces.

 

The skyscrapers behind them. Lit up neons, lit up windows, lit up flickers of the helicopter drum.

 

Liberty.

 

“I won!”

 

“La- what?!”

 

“I won!”

 

“What?!”

 

Four more ESU men. Two feds, two windbreakers shouting FIB.

 

Four Italians. The para bellum platoon.

 

“Hey, you dumb f*cking guinea retards!”

 

Penny dropped.

 

All eyes on him.

 

“I ain’t even know that word ‘guinea’ until- until last weeks or a few weeks, son, I ain’t–”

 

“What the fuuUCK–”

 

“Hey! Hey Frankie!”

 

Frankie. Eyes red. Flannel hoodie off showing sherpa insides, caught at the wrists by the cuffs, breathing ragged.

 

“Guess where- I don’t even know–”

 

“You dumb mulignan f*cking nigger!”

 

“There it- hahahAHA haha okay, aha–” grinning, “Hey, Frankie! I won!”

 

“You f*cking nigger!”

 

“I won! I won!” Standing, hands at his temples, “I won! I was ten steps ahead, nigga!”

 

Reuben, “Moolie f*cking dumb nigger piece of sh*t–”

 

“You wanna know where I start nigga, I shot–”

 

“Shut up!” Titus screaming, “Shut up!”

 

“Bufano, nigga, you ain’t cuttin’ my nuts off! That’s it, son, I cut your little wop nuts off, I got that nigga Angelo shot–”

 

“Shut up! Shut up!”

 

“Shotgun some Jamaican he blew his head off- and the guns, the guns too, that nigga Darren–”

 

“Shut up, Latrell!” Chris shouting.

 

“His name ain’t Darren! His name ain’t Darren! Those guns out the f*ckin’ gun club, you know what gun club means? You know what gun club means, it means police station, son! I won!”

 

Reuben flashed his wrists.

 

Guns trained back.

 

Reuben shrieked.

 

Latrell cackled. “You r*tard!”

 

“NIGGER NIGGER NIGGER NIGGER NIGGER NIGGER–”

 

“Keep saying it, b, you gon’ get buried under the jail, bitch, that means you die!”

 

“–NIGGER NIGGER NIGGER NIGGER–”

 

“I got you on speakerphone, son, on speakerphone! I won! I knew y’all was usin’ me–”

 

Frankie, “You f*cking little moolie–”

 

“Little what? Little what? I knew y’all was usin’ me, y’all hated me, I used you!”

 

“Moolie piece of–”

 

“Hey, Frankie, hey–”

 

“You wanna–”

 

“How’s that for a soda? I won!”

 

“Go f*ck yourself!”

 

“I won! I won! I was ten thousand steps ahead! Y’all got jugged!”

 

“I’m gonna–”

 

“His name is Logan, bitch, it ain’t Dee Dunks, huh? Hey, bitch, you wanna see me on the stand? He was a cop cop cop cop police nigga, like me, and we all know about the sh*t you done–”

 

“Latrell!” Not an Italian.

 

“--the woman you shot, the f*ckin’ deaf bitch interpreter in Bohan–”

 

Grabbed by the shoulder.

 

Jake.

 

Eyes stabbing throat.

 

Shane behind him.

 

Latrell said “What’s up?!”

 

“You’re f*cking blowing this–”

 

Frankie, “Cop f*cking punk bitch–”

 

“Hey, Jake, we can do some movie sh*t–”

 

“Shut the f*ck up!”

 

“--I WON! I won!”

 

“You’re f*cking blowing this–”

 

Shane, “We’re gonna cuff you, you don’t shut–”

 

Latrell above the clatter, “I do something wrong?!”

 

“Shut up shut up–”

 

“I won! I won!”

 

“Sh–”

 

“I won! You niggas don’t get it, I won, I was so many steps ahead sh*t’s a marathon–”

 

“Shut up!”

 

“I won! Won! Won! Won!”

 

Grabbed Latrell by the cheek. By the face, like Shane was gonna rip his jaw off–

 

“Won! Won! Won–”

 

Crack.

 

Shane kneed him in the stomach.

 

Crack.

 

Jake hit him in the face.

 

Crack crack.

 

Two more times.

 

Pushed him to the ground.

 

Crack.

 

Felt a boot against his face.

 

Pushed his forehead into the grit, into the concrete, into the sleet, into the deluge.

 

Looked ahead.

 

Liberty’s skyline. Framed by the wind, by the gushing snow, by the rain pricking his face.

 

By the helicopter drum.

 

Shane grabbed him by the arms.

 

By the wrists.

 

Locked handcuffs.

 

Latrell spat blood.

 

The city glimmered.

 

Sirens screamed.

 

The ghosts were gone.

 

***

 

Silence.

 

Silence.

 

Silence.

 

The interrogation room was dark.

 

The ghosts were still there.

 

Latrell blinked.

 

He pulled his eyelid down.

 

Let go.

 

Pulled his eyelid down.

 

Let go.

 

Had a hand free. Steel chair. Thick, planted to the ground. Galvanized metal table. Could make out scratch marks, make out dents, little brown stains left to dry.

 

Pulled his eyelid down.

 

Let go.

 

Couldn’t see his reflection on the tabletop.

 

Couldn’t see the graves.

 

Felt whispers. Felt groans.

 

His hand was cuffed to the chair.

 

Was itching.

 

His tongue. The inside of his mouth. Tingling, burning, itching.

 

Watched the door.

 

Watched the moving heads in the hallway light. Watched them pass, watched them stop, watched them keep going. 

 

Didn’t know where he was.

 

Had gone in a different car from the other guys. Had entered this station through the back. Couldn’t see out the rear windows, couldn’t make out where they were from the dumpsters and the no smoking signs and the red brick walls.

 

Definitely not the DT precinct.

 

Maybe crossed the bridge to the city. Maybe. Maybe police headquarters.

 

Maybe the graveyard.

 

His mouth was itching.

 

Watched the moving heads in the hallway light.

 

Pulled his eyelid down.

 

Let go.

 

Watched them pass.

 

Watched them stop.

 

They lingered.

 

They lingered.

 

Pulled his eyelid down.

 

Let go.

 

Heard the door click.

 

Creaked open.

 

Squinted.

 

Blinked.

 

Pulled his eyelid down.

 

Let go.

 

Three heads.

 

Latrell’s mouth itched. Blinked.

 

First head pushed through the light. Knew the first head. Crackle-crack skin of a thousand blemishes, baggy eyes, gray hair thinned down to bristle.

 

Silence in the air.

 

He grabbed the chair. The only one. Its back facing Latrell.

 

Turned it around.

 

Sat.

 

Latrell blinked.

 

“You want a smoke?”

 

Nodded.

 

Agent Enqvist felt the inside of his jacket. Dipped into the inner pocket, pulled out a box.

 

Soldiers clacked.

 

Placed it neatly on the table.

 

Latrell blinked.

 

Silence in the air.

 

“I can’t smoke this,” Latrell said.

 

“Why?”

 

“It ain’t right.”

 

“Why?”

 

“It ain’t right. That’s Redwood, that ain’t Debonaire menthol. I only smoke menthol, I only smoke Debonaire.”

 

“You don’t want it?”

 

“I don’t smoke that sh*t.”

 

Enqvist blinked.

 

Clicked his tongue.

 

Grabbed the Redwood pack.

 

Slid it into his pocket.

 

Sighed.

 

Silence.

 

“I saw this in a dream,” Latrell said.

 

Enqvist breathed. “Okay.”

 

“Yessir.”

 

“Where do you want us to start?”

 

Blinked. Latrell shrugged.

 

“Okay,” Enqvist said. “Well, you know me. You know Desmond Nepomuceno of the Liberty City Police Department.”

 

“Hey,” Desmond went.

 

“And this is Clive.”

 

Man on the right. Unfamiliar face - non distinct, all neutral. Sort of chestnut hair, middle age, looked like a mannequin.

 

“Okay,” Latrell said.

 

“Clive is a friend of ours.”

 

Looked at him.

 

Clive’s eyes were painted on.

 

“We have to have a conversation,” Enqvist said.

 

“How long it been since what happened?” Latrell asked.

 

“A while.”

 

“I’unno, ‘cause I been in here–”

 

“A while,” Enqvist repeated. “Yes. We… uh,” said it slow, “we ran into a few issues.”

 

“Where’s Jake? Where’s Shane?”

 

Desmond, “Tending to what needs to be tended to.”

 

“That don’t mean sh*t.”

 

Shrugged. “Okay.”

 

Blinked. “You said you was gonna rape my moms.”

 

Desmond stared.

 

Silence in the air.

 

“Yeah,” he said. “I did.”

 

“Is that what they’re doing?”

 

His face didn’t budge. Stone. “I don’t know.”

 

Enqvist looked to Desmond.

 

Clive didn’t.

 

Silence in the air.

 

“Where,” Enqvist began, “do you want us to start?”

 

“Did I do something wrong?” Latrell asked.

 

“Yes.”

 

“I won.”

 

Desmond, “You shouldn’t have said some of the things you said–”

 

“Nah. Nah, nah, nah. They was true. I shoulda’ said ‘em, son, I shoulda’ said ‘em on the day, son. Now I don’t know about you niggas but I won, I said that sh*t, I won.”

 

“No,” Enqvist said. “Nobody won.”

 

“Yo, f*ck is you tawkin’ about, b, we did what we did, son, what you mean?”

 

“We made a mistake.”

 

Latrell blinked.

 

Latrell cackled.

 

Laughter bubbled up at the throat and trickled out, something noxious, cloud of death in the room in front of unshaken faces. Latrell laughed, and then made a point of laughing. Stopped being sincere a couple seconds in as it became rhotic hars.

 

Balled fist on the table. “Hahahaha.” Ended with a period, then a period of silence. “Okay,” Latrell said, “then you made a mistake, son, you made a mistake, not me. Not me, son.”

 

“Where do you want us to start?” Enqvist asked.

 

“Where the f*ck you f*ck up?”

 

Sighs. “This whole thing was a mistake.”

 

Blink.

 

Clive, “A lot of misinformation–”

 

“Your friends,” Enqvist said, “at the LCPD, did not notify the Bureau of a number of things that may have been germaine to what happened tonight. Like for example, that this was occurring. We got advance warning one day prior.”

 

Latrell stared. “One day?”

 

“We were told on the 24th.”

 

Blink. “That don’t make no sense.”

 

“You could say.”

 

“I had to set this up in a week, son.”

 

“We weren’t told where you were staging the robbery other than it pertained to our squad. We didn’t know if you were robbing a Gambetti or Messina operation. We weren’t told you would be present, Latrell.”

 

Blinked. “What?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I was gon’ be on this thing day one–”

 

“We thought you were gonna be pulled prior.”

 

“I ain’t gon’ be pulled nothin’, son, niggas don’t pull sh*t.”

 

“Well,” Clive said, “they f*cking should’ve.”

 

“We weren’t told,” Enqvist continued, “you were going to be wired up. So we assumed, Latrell, the individuals present would be Mazza, Procida, Lupisella, Gravelli–”

 

“Gravelli?” Latrell scoffed. “He dropped out. What the f*ck is wrong with you dumbass motherf*ckers, man, y’all retarded, son, what the f*ck–”

 

“It would’ve been good to know. But your benefactors, Jake and Shane, they didn’t tell anyone. They didn’t tell us. They didn’t tell anyone with the Emergency Service Unit, and they didn’t tell anyone with the National Office of Security Enforcement.”

 

Blinked. “So?”

 

“We assumed that the proper paperwork was filed, and we were informed this was the case by DeCanio and Van Der Werff. The issue is we weren’t. We had no clearance. They gave us carte blanche to raid the facility, to inspect any and all materials, to open up shipping containers.”

 

Long pause.

 

“You know Phil was a bastard, right?”

 

Long pause.

 

“What?”

 

“His pops had him he was 16, son.”

 

“What the f*ck do I f*cking care about Phillip f*cking Donovan?”

 

“Well, you can look it up, b, ‘cause he a hypocrite, talm’ ‘bout Mark Lupisella sayin’ he a bastard, son, when Philly the bastard.”

 

“You moron.”

 

“Ayo, shut your r*tard mouth, nigga, you f*cked this whole–”

 

Desmond, “No.”

 

“No? Ayo, you ruined- you and y’all motherf*ckers, y’all DT niggas up in East Island, you ain’t file sh*t. What the f*ck–”

 

“We don’t file the paperwork.”

 

“You don’t do sh*t except f*ck with niggas, man. Ay, man, y’all jackals, man, a jackal ain’t much different than a wolf, man.”

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

“I’m just sayin–”

 

“Latrell,” Enqvist said. “You shouldn’t have said anything about Darren Whyano.”

 

“I ain’t a liar.”

 

“Well your local friends are.”

 

“Who?”

 

“LCPD. They blew it.”

 

Desmond’s dead face. Looking at nobody. Latrell said “Ain’t my problem.”

 

“It is. For one, that kid’s burned. We had to pull Logan out, there is no more Darren Whyano. And that was a cultivated identity–”

 

“What do I care?”

 

Scoffed, “What do you care… fine. We pulled Pier 14 apart. We weren’t legally allowed. We were informed that this warehouse was relevant to our squad, it wasn’t. We pulled open a couple dozen containers, we confiscated files, we have to give them back. We found no evidence of illegal activity in what we did find. The men you held at gunpoint–”

 

“Russians.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“What about Russians, man, they in with the mafia a’ whatever, man–”

 

“It doesn’t matter. That warehouse was owned by a legitimate man.”

 

“Russian mafia.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Russian mafia. Who?”

 

“Kenny Petrovich,” Enqvist said.

 

“Russian mafia.”

 

“No.”

 

Clive put a hand down on the table.

 

Gentle.

 

“Kenny Petrovich,” Clive said, “is an intelligence asset. He has been an intelligence asset for thirty years. He is a vital link in the chain for American interests in Israel and the Russian Federation.”

 

Latrell blinked.

 

Enqvist, “Kenny Petrovich, in addition to the Torpedo Imports office you robbed at Pier 14, owns a dozen automobile repair shops, gas stations, a grocery supply company, two newspapers, and a radio station. This is a legitimate businessman. And most importantly, he has been a help to both the FIB and other government agencies in identifying links with terrorist organizations and foreign spies.”

 

Latrell looked to Clive. “You them government?”

 

He didn’t reply.

 

“NOOSE? IAA spy nigga, some sh*t?”

 

He didn’t reply.

 

“Kenny Petrovich is on the record as a top echelon federal informant. So are Gennady Roitman, Ivan Sapozhnik and Alexey Gliksberg. So you busting in there and drawing attention to whatever they’re doing with a bunch of wop morons is the last thing we need.”

 

“He’s dealing drugs, man.”

 

“We don’t care. It doesn’t matter.”

 

“I’m an informant too–”

 

“No,” Enqvist said.

 

Latrell blinked.

 

Latrell tapped his foot.

 

“No,” he parroted back.

 

“You aren’t,” Enqvist said. “You never have been.”

 

“I said all this sh*t–”

 

“Said. Verbal. Nothing written down.”

 

“No–”

 

“You aren’t on record. You have no 302. You never signed anything.”

 

“No. No. No. No.”

 

“We were told you had,” Enqvist said.

 

Clive looked to Desmond.

 

Desmond cleared his throat. “We never did nothin’.”

 

“I had a wire on,” Latrell said.

 

“You shouldn’t have,” Enqvist replied. “You really shouldn’t have.”

 

“You are out of your motherf*cking cocksucking mind, son.”

 

“None of it is admissible in court. Nothing. None of this was legal. Nothing you’ve done is legal. This entire operation, this entire little Union Depository idiot raid you and your morons pulled. Nothing.”

 

“So what? So what?”

 

Enqvist blinked. “As of tomorrow, everyone except you will be out of custody.”

 

Latrell tapped his foot.

 

Latrell tapped his foot.

 

“Except?” he said.

 

“Except you.”

 

Latrell tapped his foot. “f*ck you.”

 

“Every recording you made will be burned. We’re lucky we bugged the tattoo parlor, the car; that’ll be admissible. But everything on your person. No. What happened today will not be relevant to any further indictments. There won’t be any headlines. As far as the world will know, tonight never happened.”

 

Clive, “This would never have worked.”

 

Latrell, “Then why the f*ck I do it?”

 

Enqvist, “Because you were misinformed. We were misinformed. None of this is going on record anywhere. None of this was the real McCoy. At the end of the day, we got some details wrong. In truth, we got a lot of details wrong, but these things happen. But you aren’t going into a courtroom.”

 

Blinked.

 

Latrell breathed.

 

Latrell tapped his foot.

 

“So what?”

 

Clive blinked. “You’re a ghost.”

 

Blinked back.

 

“You’re a dead man walking.”

 

“No,” Latrell said. “No.”

 

“It’s what it is–”

 

“What the f*ck you mean I’m a f*ckin’ dead man–”

 

“Don’t delude yourself. We made no notes, you’re not in any books, you’re in no files. Your existence is an illegality. So you are not real anymore.”

 

“I’m real, what the- what- what–”

 

“You’re dead.”

 

“No. No no no no no, I know sh*t, man, I know about the DT–”

 

“That’s the problem. You know. You know about the Disruption Team. That’s not a legal operation, either. It’s important to the LCPD, but it’s not legal.”

 

“No!”

 

“No. Everyone busted tonight is going back on the street; all five will be declined prosecution. And truth or no, they’re going to inform all of their friends in organized crime that you’ve got a snitch tag. We can’t make that come back to us, and you aren’t giving testimony on any stand anywhere. We can’t risk shedding light on any of the informants involved in this–”

 

“No! No!”

 

“Calm down.”

 

“They ain’t gonna kill me, son, ain’t nobody gon’ cut my dick off, b, f*ck that, son–”

 

“No. They won’t.”

 

“Okay.” 

 

“They won’t understand the scope of this. Aside from what you did tonight. But you know about the Disruption Team, and Kenny Petrovich. Frankie Mazza and the rest’ll be booked in another indictment, and we’ll be lenient to anyone–”

 

“Be lenient to me. Be lenient to me. Be lenient to me. I’m- listen, I matter here, f*ck ‘em, I’m the only one who- who- listen, son, listen–”

 

“We will be. We can be, anyway. We thought this would work. It didn’t. They’re getting out, charges are getting dropped, we pick ‘em up in a couple months for what Enqvist here can swing. You’re a different story. We aren’t booking you with anything.”

 

“Okay?”

 

“But you aren’t going back on the street.”

 

“So I go to jail?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“But you ain’t bookin’ me with no crimes–”

 

“Yes.”

 

“How the f*ck you do that?”

 

“We can do it however we want.”

 

Deathly quiet.

 

“No you can’t.”

 

“Yes. We can.”

 

“Stop it.”

 

“You’re nothing. You aren’t real, Latrell. You’re a ghost. And within a year, maybe two or three if you’re quiet; you’re going to be dead. You are going to die.”

 

Latrell stopped tapping his foot.

 

“And, again. We can make it look however we want. If you keep quiet. If you play ball. We’ll make sure, you know, that we do it in a compassionate way. I promise that. On my kids. You play easy, it’ll be quick, and maybe you’ll see the end of the decade. You play hard, it’ll be hard.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“You know what I mean.”

 

Latrell didn’t reply.

 

“You don’t say anything. You don’t try to say anything. And it won’t be painful. You’ll vanish. If it goes another way, it goes another way. Regardless, you’ll go on the record as what you are, which is a hoodlum that Francesco Mazza hired for the purposes of a gangland assassination. And that’s where your relationship ends. You won’t be relevant to that case. You won’t be alive when sentences for it are handed out.”

 

Latrell didn’t reply.

 

“But you aren’t necessarily alive now, either.”

 

Latrell didn’t reply. 

 

Enqvist, “We’ll put you on file as incarcerated for unrelated charges. We’ll say it was your friend Xavier and some others who did what they did on Morgan Avenue. And things will go how they go from there. There will be no testimony. You are not an informant. And as far as tomorrow goes, you won’t exist.”

 

“It has to be this way,” Clive murmured.

 

Latrell didn’t reply.

 

Desmond thumbed his nose. “It’s how it is.”

 

Latrell looked to the ghosts.

 

They stood in the corner.

 

They made no faces, spoke no words.

 

The three men turned.

 

They filed through the door.

 

It closed.

 

The ghosts left with them.

 

Silence in the air.

 

Silence.

 

Silence.

 

Deathly quiet.

 

There was only one ghost left.

 

Latrell breathed.

 

Latrell breathed.

 

Pulled his eyelid down.

 

Let go.

 

Pulled his eyelid down.

 

Let go.

 

Pulled his eyelid down.

 

Let go.

 

The Glossary

Liberty City Map

Vice City Map

Edited January 20, 2024 by slimeball supreme