RED LINE: The Writing

[slimeball supreme]

  

WINNER OF BEST CONCEPT 2019

ORIGINAL THREAD

SLIMEBALL SUPREME & CEBRA

special thanks to

MOB

Markyevansy

The Deadite

 

Red Line is a story set in the early 90's as the wild days of Liberty City draw to a bitter close. We're going to only post the actual writing, the most valuable part of concept in our opinions, here to garner a few more readers and to put a spotlight on the prose. Who knows, maybe if we see any feedback we might keep it up.

 

1. An Ancient Art
2. Status Quo
3. The Butcher of Bantonvale
4. Bathing in Filth
5. A Great Big Pussy
6. Neither Down, Nor Feather
7. Compromises Be Damned

 

A Dramatis Personae

 

Adrian 'Age' Tessa - Vile young thug in a crew of vile young thugs.

Felix Godovsky - Cynical enforcer of the People's Court.

 

Spoiler

 

The Italian

Nonna Tessa - Age's grandmother.

Roy Zito - Ambitious leader of the Bantonvale Boys crew.

Jon Gravelli, Jr - Affable and inadequate son.

Eric Lo Iacono - Moody and unstable muscle.

Butchie Bove - Machiavellian Gambetti capo and butcher.

Peter Rea - Ostentatious underboss of the Gambetti family.

Jon Gravelli - Sly and even-handed mob boss.

Sonny Bottino - Odious protege of Jon Gravelli.

Oswaldo Quiroga - Peruvian pimp and drug supplier.

Jayvon Simson - Driven, if underhanded, uptown dealer.

Joey Corolla - Mob brat derided for associating with black people.

Marlon Faraldo - Former US Attorney and aspiring politician.

Zuriel Orzoff - Slimy lawyer of Pete Rea and Jon Gravelli.

DB-P - Insecure rapper.

Harvey Noto - Unorthodox Messina boss.

Cal Cazzini - Canadian heroin dealer.

Ollie Lulu - French-Canadian Messina capo.

John Jack McReary - Government witness.

Gerald McReary - Irish stick-up kid.

Maria Valvona - Spiritualist Pavano front boss.

Artie Zapulla - Lecherous boyfriend of Valvona.

Mel Schiavone - Negotiator and Messina underboss.

Vito Menotti - Owner of successful dog food factory.

Ciro the Body - Jon Gravelli's bodyguard.

Mark & Fredo Volpe - Thuggish enforcers for Ollie Lulu.

Reynold Zito - Roy's mentally deficient brother.

Spenzo Kazalo - Albanian who pretends to be Italian.

Bobbie Cooze - Cat burglar and X-head.

 

The Russian

Nadya Godovskaya - Felix's altruistic sister.

Izya Bronshtein - A neurotic neighbor.

Gennady Roitman - Felix's stubborn boss.

German Roitman - Gennady's mute twin.

Kuzma 'Kenny' Petrovich - Jewish-Russian boss of the People's Court.

Motya Shvedik - Rival gang boss on a warpath.

Lazar Saravaisky - Kenny's mentor.

Kitaychik - A connection to European gangsterdom.

Sylvester Ganzfried - Government-connected rabbi.

Lev Gefter - Club owner and book-keeper.

Marki Ashvilli - Georgian money launderer and sexual deviant.

Moishe Schwartz - Zionist and de facto consigliere.

Fanka Dzhekobson - Mousy right hand of Motya.

Dolph Beckler - Deeply racist LCPD sergeant.

Benny Saravaisky - Follicly challenged son of Lazar.

Mori Green - Lupisella connected fence and diamond dealer.

Vikentiy Rabinovich - Kingpin of European underworld.

Yiyo Monsalve - Flamboyant Colombian drug dealer.

Ainsley Sinclair - Former MI5 and Yiyo's "resident tactician".

The Blowouts - Dominican drug dealing brothers.

Rami Yalon - Mafia hitman and former Mossad.

Izzy D'Avanzo - Independent assassin and degenerate.

Leo Puelo - Imprisoned psychopath and former Lupisella king.

Dominic Sepe - Fugitive underboss known as 'The Wrench'.

 

Edited September 20, 2023 by slimeball supreme

[Cebra]

 

“You ready?”

 

Screen fades from black: four guys. Red Declasse Accomplice idles on the road in pitch dark, North Broker avenue with restaurants and delis and pizza places. Wet road painted neons of green and red and blue, storefronts open late or dead for the night with the doors shuttered.

 

“This whole deal is startin’ to feel way too f*ckin’ familiar to me.”

 

“You ready?”

 

Cut to face. Young face with serious eyes. The first look at our protagonist as he holds his own at the rear-passenger door, Age Tessa. “Born ready.”

 

Passenger side, pretty boy, turns head. “Remember,” he says. “No names. This goes back to us…”

 

“Yeah, yeah.”

 

“I’ll talk. Jon.”

 

Driver, big nose and cropped hair, “Yeah?”

 

“You hear gunshots? Don't move the f*cking car.”

 

“I--”

 

“Don't move the f*cking car.”

 

“Christ, Roy. Fine.”

 

Roy points, side eyes. “Move.”

 

Cutscene continues, three guys get out. Desperadoes, Roy leads the pack, puts a hand up instructing masks. Masks on.

 

Hockey masks from the jackets.

 

Pack moves down the street, into an alley, camera lingers on the sign at the entrance saying ‘Piazza Plaza Restaurant’ as the trio funnel into the rear door with guns out.

 

Player’s given control and the reigns are his, third place of the three with Roy skulking up past garbage and gutter trash. Middle boy, silent for once, brandishes shotgun and scratches his side, sweeps hand through slicked back hair, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Player can stay silent, can, has an option to hold the left-trigger down and focus on the guy ahead.

 

“Eric,” he says. “You good, man?”

 

Roy swipes, “I told you, Age, no f*ckin’ names. Not ‘til we’re past Outlook and we got nobody on us.”

 

“Christ, man. Fine.”

 

Eric shrugs, “Ready’s ready. Just wanna get this sh*t over ‘fore the speed wears off.”

 

No time for this. Three guys stop at a red door at the end of the alley, little frosted-over window peeking light through the dark. You can hear noise, hear ruckus and color from the other side, laughing and blind chatter.

 

“This is it.”

 

“This is f*ckin’ it,” Eric goes.

 

It goes. You get a button prompt, you take the lead. Press it.

 

You kick the door down.

 

Thing half blasts off the hinges and interior spills out into the alley, warm with the air heater going nuts. Neon lights lining the roof, Rhiannon by Fleetwood Mac playing on LRR. These guys were having a good time; two-make do poker tables lined with ten guys each, a couple more with beers and sandwiches by the bar. Cards and chips splayed.

 

They all stare at you a moment. Could hear a pin drop, just a dozen eyes on you.

 

And then they start bickering.

 

It's bedlam, just guido rambling, “f*ck youse” and “mothaf*ckas”, almost as loud as before, maybe louder. Hints of Italian in between, some getting up.

 

“Hey--”

 

Noise noise noise.

 

“Hey!”

 

Noise noise noise.

 

“Shut the f*ck up!”

 

They stop.

 

Roy leads, moves to the center and points his gun around the room. “You know what the f*ck this is.”

 

“Halloween?”

 

The Pavanos laugh.

 

Eric, “Three of us are gonna alleviate youse a’ unnecessary valuables.”

 

“Get the f*ckin’ cash out! Not a f*ckin’ word.”

 

They don't listen: keep talking, music keeps playing. You're in command.

 

Shake ‘em up a little.

 

Prompt is simple, go up to anyone. Press the assigned button. Watch Adrian reel for the back of the guy’s head, grab him by the scruff of his neck, and slam the gun into his temple.

 

A few guys jolt. “Settle the f*ck down.”

 

Roy, “Settle the f*ck our f*ckin’ money!”

 

It’s repeat business: young toughs on the old gruffs who let go of their last dollar with fire in their eyes. If looks could kill they’d be from men not used to being on the wrong side of a gun.

 

You go from one to the next - fat fingers linger as long as possible as they pull their wallets, toss the wad into Eric’s bag, repeat. Think they’re making a point of drawing it out.

 

Age quips, “Just be happy we let you keep your credit cards, fellas.”

 

By now Roy’s circling the table, shark around the school of fish. Eyes catch on a big guy, purple polo under blazer and palms flat on table, silver watch glistening. Roy whistles. “Crowex. Anything but fugazi, huh?”

 

Guy doesn’t speak.

 

“Hand it over, old man.”

 

You’re still in control as Age: watching it unfold in real time, Eric hovering with the bag, shuffling hundreds, Roy with the gun getting ever closer to Mr. Watch’s temple. Jumps for effect: “Clock’s tickin’!” as the guy starts loosening it from his wrist.

 

Hold your sights down on the men, flaccid men who can’t make eye contact no more. Rhiannon’s kicked into chorus again - man flaps the watch face-down on the felt and Roy snatches it right up.

 

Roy whistles again, checks it a moment. “F*ckin’ purty, huh?”

 

“F*ck you,” wop snarls. Roy just pockets the thing.

 

“Now,” Roy’s ready to get up on the tables and start shouting, keeps himself down on ground level. “Youse got f*ckin’ safes? Where’s the house keepin’ the, uh… what’s the f*ckin’ word…”

 

Eric chimes in, “Pot. The pot.”

 

“You guys ain’t just got f*ckin’ loose fifties, you got f*ckin’ pots. Empty the pans, where the f*ck are they?”

 

Wiseguys can chime in too, “Up yours.”

 

“Cheap f*ckin’ toddler f*ckin’ chumps!”

 

Roy twitches.

 

Points gun at guy.

 

Relents.

 

Deep breath in, deep breath out. Can almost hear him thinking. “You--”

 

CRACK, bathroom door gets wiped clean off its goddamn hinges, shotgun shells fly and people duck. Surprise lunatic decided to play hero. Adrian hits the floor, bullet cuts into the stereo and the song stops and fizzles out, just whirring and static and electro-gore. Fires off another round and the wiseguys start to jump up, reach for ankle holsters.

 

“F*ck this!”

 

Roy takes off, Eric joins second.

 

Gameplay hits.

 

You’re in the hot seat so get booking - Mr. Pump Action at the door doesn’t have bad aim, neither do the people you just robbed who made sure to grab extra protection before settling in. Pummel out the back door into rain, kick puddles and hear gunshots ring out and scream down the alleyway.

 

Roy’s booking it, Eric’s wheezing, nearly trips and half-falls into a puddle and soaks himself. No time for no goddamn remarks since he’s back up again, shoulder-to-shoulder with you.

 

Jon’s at the passenger rubbing his schnozz.

 

“What the f*ck?!” Roy’s screaming, Jon’s barely holding on, barely awake. Throws himself down the backseat shouting “You f*ckin’ basing on goddamn--”

 

No time, no goddamn time, Age throws himself over the hood and into the driver’s. Eric hits the back, scrambles through the door Roy half closed outta instinct.

 

Shotgun prick starts firing at the street.

 

“Go, go, f*ckin’ go!!”

 

Wheels tear off, roar into the distance with the car screeching down the road. You’re driving, throw down north, east, west; south if you wanna risk running into Pump Action f*ckhead - but Roy’s probably louder than the gat blasts.

 

“--f*cking idiot!”

 

“I’m sorry--”

 

“You got one f*ckin’ goddamn job! One job! Moron!”

 

“I’m pickin’ up your sh*t and I was in the shop,” Age goes. “C’mon.”

 

“You was in a long f*ckin’ time!”

 

“Two minutes goddamn long time! That a long f*ckin’ time?!”

 

“I’m sorry, Roy!”

 

You’re not the only moron on four wheels squealing through half the borough: check the rear view mirror. Two-or-four psychos in a grey Zirconium Malta, can tell it’s the Pavanos you just robbed thanks to the ProLaps tracksuits and loud striped polos brighter than the fog lamps. Naturally, they’re too scared to shoot out the windows.

 

Good.

 

“These guys made?” Eric’s calm. Cool. Must’ve been bad speed.

 

“What?!”

 

“Wanna make sure ‘fore I shoot.”

 

Jon, “Don’t matter, like they f*ckin’ know who we are!”

 

“Small town.”

 

Eric’s prepped to lean out the window now - easy pickings. Slow down and let the guys pick up, maybe turn the corner easy; give Eric a good shot and he’ll start spraying his Lupara and dressing the Pavano windshield in blood.

 

Or play it safe. Hit the pedal. Roy might prefer it.

 

Keep going. Keep going until the cutscene kicks in; when you’re reasonably far enough away from the sirens and the restaurant, when you’ve lost the tail via bloodstain or skidmark.

 

And then nothing. Just the camera on the dashboard - a second or two of silence with the guys looking forward.

 

And then cheers.

 

“We f*ckinnn’ did it!!”

 

Something snaps and the energy explodes, Jon hits his head, Roy’s near jumping, Eric’s got his head back dog-eyed at the roof with the sweat dripping off everyone.

 

“Turn the f*ckin’ AC on, Age--”

 

“Yeah, Age, c’mon--”

 

“--heat’s f*ckin’ killin’ me--”

 

“Fine, guys.” Click. Adrian reclines. Deep breath. “Fine.”

 

Cut to black.

 

Lasts a few seconds until an alarm goes off, a few seconds until plastic smash and it stops.

 

Color floods through the apartment window. The clock is on the floor.

 

Felix Godovsky sits down on the bed, half asleep, undershirt on. Just looks out at the street a moment.

 

Breathes.

 

Gets up.

 

You’re in control again. Bedroom is small, apartment made for one means trading between sofa and bed with sister Nadya. A lot of taupe, not much leg space. Get up - hit the closet or wash your face first. Closet is mostly leather, denim, black sweaters and jeans. You can hear the sink running in the kitchen so don’t walk out ‘til you’re ready.

 

Or do. If so, Nadya’ll look up from the dishes, chuckle to herself. “C’mon, Felix.”

 

Apartment’s old: old mouldings, old red fleur de lis wallpaper the landlord’s been saying he’ll replace for half a year, floral print furniture, flooded with light during the day but dim and dank at night. Wouldn’t be surprised if the place didn’t have gas heating, but lo and behold.

 

In Russian: “Have I got any calls?” Felix asks.

 

“Nyet.”

 

Just a ‘hmph’. Opens the fridge, pulls out an apple.

 

“Good night?”

 

Felix shrugs, throws himself on the couch, stares up at the ceiling. “Is, uh… I tell you much about Lev?”

 

“No.”

 

“Guy is a f*cking headache, man. Gets on my f*cking-... what’s the word… the uh, the gears. They grind. I don’t know. My nerves. Вот и всë.”

 

Phone rings.

 

Felix near jumps, leaves the apple unbitted on the coffee table, scrambles for the phone.

 

“Приве́т? Gennady?”

 

“Speak f*cking English.”

 

“Sorry. Sorry. What, what is it?”

 

“You need to see us at the club. Soon as possible. Do I have to say this in f*cking Russian so you understand? See me at club?”

 

“No. I get it. I told you, it’s a f*cking habit, come on.”

 

“Speak f*cking English, see me at the f*cking club. That’s orders. Hit the f*cking bricks.”

 

Line goes dead. Felix puts the phone back on the line.

 

“Good time?”

 

“Nadya they-... sh*t. You know.”

 

“I would if you tell me, huh?”

 

Felix snorts. Isn’t exactly one for a witty comment.

 

Gameplay starts again - quick safehouse tutorial. Paper’s on the desk, TV’s ready for watching, sofa and fridge and bed and sink and phone. Get dressed if you haven’t, you head to the club in underwear you’ll never hear the goddamn end of it, but do as ordered. 

 

Hit the bricks, kid.

 

+$650
(Adrian)

 

ANOTHER BUMP IN THE ROAD FOR ALLEGED GAMBETTI DON

By Desi Tondro

As prosecutors began to draw the long-running trial of ‘Teflon’ Jon Gravelli to a close, alongside co-defendant and alleged Gambetti underboss Peter Rea; authorities have announced a retrial after evidence implicating the two in obstruction has arisen. Charges levied at Rea and Gravelli include jury tampering and yet more conspiracy, news Judge Rudolph Gross accepted with an eye-roll and habitual gavel-slam, and mayoral nominee Marlon Faraldo cheered on with raised fists at an early election rally.

 

“With this news, justice can finally rest, get some much needed beauty sleep,” said Mr. Faraldo while holding a burning effigy of a ferret onstage. “Justice’ll wake up strong in the morning, brush its teeth! Its teeth!”

 

The retrial marks another hit for the Liberty City mafia in recent years with three of the five families hosting leaders in court; Lupisella boss Leo Puleo’s recent racketeering indictment and the still-fugitive status of underboss Dominic Sepe, the recent conviction of Ancelotti underboss Raniere ‘Neri’ Cantù and several co-conspirators, as well as the death of Luigi ‘Louie’ Valvona in 1990. 

 

According to lead prosecutor Linda Galione, the upcoming case “won’t be easy” for the mafia kingpin; with counter-measures like anonymous jurors being considered to prevent potential corruption and tampering. Gravelli’s lawyer, Zuriel Orzoff, decried the addendum as “unconstitutional” before throwing his coffee in this reporter’s face.

 

Do these recent arrests signify a shift in La Cosa Nostra’s iron fist around the Liberty underworld? Will the Gambetti Family bounce back from these indictments, or will Gravelli’s hands finally find themselves in a pair of permanent cuffs? Are we finally seeing the end of the mob?

 

I don’t know. Maybe.

 

PRESIDENTIAL HOPEFUL CHARMS ON THE SAX

Viewers were delighted on last night’s broadcast of The Fraction Anderson Show when presumptive Democratic nominee for president Dean Boykin sprung from an interview on Fraction’s trademark purple velour loveseat, donned a pair of Rimmers sunglasses, and began honking away on a saxophone in front of a live studio audience. He received a standing ovation.

 

Boykin, who has seen his polling numbers stagnate of late and still holds third in the three-man race between himself, incumbent President George Lawton, and upset frontrunner Spud Laskey, made a valiant effort to endear himself to Anderson’s predominantly young, black audience by gamely - and by common consensus, failing - to jam his golden horn to a variety of blues tracks performed exclusively by white musicians. 

 

Washington hardliners from both sides of the aisle have been quick to ridicule the performance, calling into every radio show from coast to coast in an effort to shame it. One anonymous legislator with a particularly high, breathy voice said: “It demeans the political process. To play dancing monkey to an audience of -- uh, an audience of potential voters, frankly, it’s unheard of. And it’s not that I can’t play an instrument. I can. I play the flute and the clarinet. I was a Boy Scout. But I only play for my wife. Look, the point is that this is how democracy dies. It dies here, not with a bang but a goddamn sax solo.”

 

This is WSOS, I’m Sergio Carballal. The truth bagpipe has been blown.

Edited June 21, 2021 by Cebra

[slimeball supreme]

Hitting the apartment hallways after mission one leads you straight into an ambush: Izya Bronshtein toying with his apartment locks like he’s just about to leave. He isn't and hasn't - he's been out there about ten or so minutes waiting for you, with keen ears you'll probably have heard the jangling and muttering while getting dressed.

 

“Just the man I wanted to see!”

 

Felix stops, scrunches brow. “Clearly.”

 

“Are you busy, Felyen’ka?”

 

You are. “I have work, Izya.”

 

“Then where is the suitcase! Ah? Ah?”

 

Brows keep scrunched, “...Что? What do you- I don't have a suitcase.”

 

“Is a joke! Is a joke. We can walk and we can talk, can we?”

 

Izya’s in a red flannel shirt looking especially disheveled, barely past 8 and it looks like he’s either just woke up or had a remarkably long day. Keys, still billowing cigarette, sh*tty little magazine catalog all multi-color, glossy paper, a fair bit crinkled. He’s rubbing sweat off his brow and looks like he’s got more to say than just “how’s the weather?”

 

Felix loosens, “Sure,” he says. “Walk and talk.”

 

“Walk and talk! Easy.”

 

Easy - walk down the hall. There’s this uncomfortable pause when gameplay kicks in and you can start heading for the stairs, Felix clears his throat, “So…”

 

“How’s the weather, eh?” Maybe you misjudged.

 

“Is--”

 

“I been,” Izya laughs, “My mail all f*cked up, I want this- I buy something from magazine, and- and- and the postman says there need to be- heh, I-... is strange. America - a lot of money! A lot of thing to buy. Just not so good when you don’t have to buy the money, eh? Or, ah, you know. You don’t have money to buy new TV or the new music player or so on. My wife--”

 

“How is Anichka?”

 

“You know. The baby… it takes up a lot of time. And she was working before so now, you know. Now the hands are full! I been here ten years I still don’t got my English so good, but she,” made a little explosion noise with his mouth, “She excellent. And when she quit it’s- you know. Not fantastic. But it’s worth it for the attention you can give, yeah?”

 

“Sure, Izya.”

 

“You can come in anytime! You haven’t been over for a while. Door’s always open to you. I’m always open for a phone call, you know.”

 

He’s right by the by - his door is always open in gameplay. You want to borrow a newspaper or have a talk with Izya or Anichka or borrow a pint of sugar or whatever, you can. It’s a privilege extended to both you and another neighbor you might see from time to time, Shoshana; she’s a physical therapist who heads down to the city on the regular, but she’s always happy to drop by with Izya or Nadya for a coffee and a chat.

 

Not important. “Sure,” Felix says. He’s warm, warm as he can - knew Izya in the old country and was happy to move next-door when they came down to America.

 

Izya was too. “Good. Good. Hey--”

 

You’re approaching the exit by now, you’ve gone down a flight or two of stairs and have finally passed by the mailboxes. Cutscene bleeds in, Felix does a cursory check of the box reading GODOVSKY. Nada. “Are you okay, Izrail?”

 

“Izrail, yeah… haha. You know what they say about Izya, da?”

 

“Izyaslav to goyim and Izrail to your boss.”

 

“Yes, yes, I’ve said that one--”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Yeah…” his face hardens, he gets serious, “Look. I- uh… I need a favor. I need some help.”

 

“Money?”

 

“No! No. Maybe, but no. Look - I’ve… I’m in some sh*t. With some people.”

 

“Ты в опасности? Аничка в порядке?”

Are you in danger? Is Anichka okay?

 

“Don’t worry! I just… if you come to my apartment and maybe talk maybe I can talk more. Please.”

 

Felix looks into his eyes. Deep. “Конечно.”

Of course.

 

Immediately back loose, “Great! Great! Here, here- take this.” Izya hands you the magazine, still crumpled, makes you hold it and doesn’t let go ‘til you’ve got it clutched. “A gift from me.”

 

Felix looks down. Budget Consumer Weekly. “Okay.”

 

On that, Izya spins on his heels and heads right back upstairs. Cool.

 

You can use the Catalog for mail order purchasing - neat tech, neat stuff for your apartment, neat miscellany. This one’s pretty cheap and’ll run the gamut of stuff considered ‘brand spanking new’ before 1985. You can find better just lying around, and if not that more specialised - be it cars or clothes or junk.

 

Why Izya gave you a mail-order mag as a ‘gift’ is completely beyond you. Put it in your jacket or toss it. Head outside.

 

Hove Beach.

 

You’re on the east-to-west running main road of Mohawk Avenue. Overhead subway train screams up above you, women in cowls and garish colors squawking Slavic, street vendors hawking newspapers and pastries. The occasional tough in a leather jackets, track pants, shaved heads and ponytails.

 

Hove Beach.

 

You can drive to the blip on the radar - your car’s right ahead of you, a red Karin Gogetter in the designated parking spot. But, Gulag Garden is only a few blocks away, so you’re better for a stroll. Take in the sights, say hi to some friendly faces and get “Приветствую, друг!” or “Отвали!” right back.

 

Get a paper, the Tree or the Horn or your standard cyrillic. Get a pirozhok.

 

Gulag Garden looms.

 

It’s on the corner off Mohawk, means the line runs down the block when the place opens, green awnings and gold cursive - GG. Employee outside sweeping the leaves off the door you gotta walk over without bumping into. Into the Garden: the green from the entry transitions to the roof, these supports and these floral patterns. The floors and tables in deep velvet red. Cobalt-black statue of a lady in the center.

 

It’s beautiful: in a tacky, ugly kind of way.

 

Past the bar and the stage where the bands play and the singers sing is the VIP table, walled off and stuck in the corner out of sight, means the civvies and politicians have to walk up past rows of thugs before they ask for a favor.

 

In the boss’ seat, Gennady Roitman. Skull head, bald, sagging eyes. To his right, his brother German, black bearded and thick headed in a permanent pout, sticking his bottom lip out and staring with nothing eyes.

 

Felix opens, “Living the dream, huh?”

 

“The f*ck you say?” sniped right back.

 

“Sit where Kenny sit, live like king. You want to be king?”

 

Shadowed, “In another life,” he says. “For now - I king of you. I rule you. You respect me. Sit the f*ck down.”

 

Felix opens palms, holds ‘em up, sits down with arms folded. “What was the urgent I come here for?”

 

Gennady doesn’t pick up on the mocking: “Delivery.”

 

“Get some prick to do it.”

 

“You’re my prick. Remo, you know Grimwaldo?”

 

“The polack. Or the Italian. Or the Swiss. Or the I-don’t-f*cking-know. Winogrodzki.”

 

“Our South American partners are gearing up for, eh… new shipment. This beautiful sh*t, they cut it in Thailand, some f*cking cooking Coq au Vin sweets and spices sh*t going to blow the nose off half the yuppie from here to Exchange.”

 

“Right out the gate. You wearing a wire?”

 

“I don’t like the f*cking attitude, Felix.”

 

German motions like he’s about to say something, puffs his chest out. Doesn’t. Sits back down. Felix scratches neck and ignores, “So what am I doing here? Congratulate on the job well done?”

 

“You were right I could get any schmuck. You were right. But I sending some product, some scag, car full in the car outside--”

 

“Car full in the car?”

 

Voice harshens, “--and I don’t trust nosy Uzbek f*cker who Benny set me up with.”

 

“Benny Saravaisky?"

 

“Yes Mister f*cking Wire, Benny. It’s from up the ladder so shut the f*ck up and get the f*ck out. Musor Motya f*cking Shvedik do bullsh*t we need to f*cking deal with.”

 

“Up the ladder, of course.”

 

“Yes, up the goddamn ladder. You don’t make no f*cking wisecracks with this guy, his name Yuldashev. Garage in Goatherd. He turn this scag down I cut you f*cking tongue out and Benny cut mine.”

 

Felix tries to speak.

 

Gennady shuts him down: “Get the hell out of here.”

 

German nods in agreement.

 

Guess you’re getting the hell outta here. Their eyes follow you as you leave.

 

You might’ve noticed a black Remington curbside near GG - probably not since I didn’t mention it, but that baby is your ride. Too fancy for a drug car you’d think, but whatever, galant f*cker that the broom lady got told to stay away from. You can pop the trunk: shotgun, dope. Shut it quick. Hop in and you’ll get hit with the sounds of WBEX, Tchaikovsky’s Valse Sentimentale and directions set for 19th Street.

 

Switch to first person for the thrill of being right inside the goddamn land yacht: cream leather glistens in the sun, red velour accents on the dash and lining the seats remind you of your grandmother’s couch. Decadence 15 years past now just unashamed self-indulgent luxury - hit the gas while Felix slaps the column shifter and mutters;

 

“Land yacht. Jew canoe. Вялый кусок дерьма, скорее.”

Slow piece of sh*t, more like.

 

Slow piece of sh*t is jet black, pedestrians recoil at the glare stopped at red lights. You’re not too far so you can make the drive in shadow within five minutes - running under the elevated tracks’ Broker line through Hove, zebra-filtered sunlight from glare peeking through creases and the occasional screech and rumble when the Route 3 car barrels above you. Slow roll past warm-dressed casuals brunching under unshuttered shopfronts, a congregation outside Goatherd’s Chabad synagogue, foot traffic galore ‘til you reach your destination.

 

A block of redbrick masonry sitting not-so-pretty opposite bungalow townhouses on 19th - easily a dozen clunkers crowding the street outside in various states of disrepair, some with three-four-five parking violations slotted onto the windshield and nobody paying them any mind. Pull up where there’s not already a car and you’ll see the place is particularly nondescript: two massive garage doors graffitied over, signage: Автомастерская over a phone number and the requisite assurance - Registered by Liberty State ! We do LCS inspections ! - ersatz plaques, and not just one but many apiece.

 

Felix steps onto the curb and squints, looks up at the signs, eyes draw down to some guy by one of the doors, short and denim-clad and aging like mold - the type you’d get away with calling ‘bulbous’ with a little black newsboy cap. He’s got a bagel.

 

“Hey!”

 

No response.

 

“Yuldashev!”

 

Little man gets up, waddles halfway over. Good guess. Crumb-filled “Извините меня?” before realizing who he's talking to. Jolts, “No problem, no problem!” and signals you inside.

 

Felix stays put and smirks. “Yuldashev,” points to the sign, then the next sign, then the next sign that says they do LCS inspections. “You do LCS inspections?”

 

“Da, da, we do LCS inspections, we certified and everything.”

 

Smirk graduates to a laugh, he says okay and follows Yuldashev inside.

 

It’s a garage. Dank and concrete-stained, one car jacked up on a lift and an office squared off on the side, glass blocks peeking TV light and fans running and fluorescent track lighting and some goddamn whirring from god knows where. Garage stuff. Second exit through another steel door leading out back.

 

Man keeps munching on his bagel, sesame seeds falling by the dozen. Intent look that old men often have while their neurons are still firing.

 

“What is your name? You are Saravaisky’s boy?”

 

Felix scratches his head, ponders impatience. “Not nobody’s boy. I am Felix, eh, Roitman sends me. Look, can we do this? I got soup on the burner at home.”

 

“Oh, Roitman. That, uh, Gennady, yeah? And his brother. Немой. You know,” he finishes his bagel and starts licking fingers, “You know, you hear such bad thing and stories about these boys, these men. I seen them myself, types that could break you with the hand alone so is probably true. But I always say, we say at home - В тихом омуте черти водятся. You’ve heard this?”

In a quiet pool, demons dwell.

 

“I’ve heard this. In English you say uh, the waters run wide? Or is something about the devil, I forget.”

 

“Yes - but I say know your enemy. Now we are not enemies, hopefully never, but I stay close to the predictable man. And these Roitmans, they may be a violent pair but they are predictable. So is not so bad that they send you.” 

 

“Thanks you for your insight, Yuldashev, you are so very wise. Like university or some sh*t. You want to see drugs now?”

 

Yuldashev laughs at it. “You uh, come pull car into the garage. I will do inspection. Felix, yes?” 

 

Nods.

 

“You want bagel?”

 

Nods.

 

Go fetch the car. Street’s quiet for foot and regular traffic alike; deserted actually, save a white Pony parking at the nearest cross street. Felix asks the Remington if she missed him before cranking the ignition. Mount the curb and the bumper probably scrapes because it’s a f*cking boat, pull into the garage as Yuldashev closes the door three-quarters and rubs his hands together.

 

“Let us see what we have here.”

 

Felix gets his bagel. “Spasibo, Yuldashev.”

 

You’re sitting pretty while Yuldashev does his thing: camera cuts to him intermittently - the goods hidden in the spare wheel, under the seats, not genius sh*t but at that quantity you’re already facing a whole heap of trouble no matter how hard you might try and hide it. 

 

Bagel gets tossed on a tool chest as Felix reaches for his Redwoods and starts patting around for his lighter.

 

Yuldashev’s head pops out above the Remington. “Unless you want fumes in here to maybe ignite I think maybe you go out back. Better for the both.”

 

Yeah. 

 

So Felix totes his bagel and smoke and crosses into the back courtyard through the second garage door, gets comfy on a set of doubled-up tires besides. Place is flanked by high-rises with tiny balconies, kind from which you admire your hard-earned view at least bimonthly to convince you the rent is worthwhile. Felix sees someone doing just that from fifteen stories up, waves like a madman.

 

Yuldashev joins. “В полном порядке.”

Right as rain.

 

“So we - my associates - we have a deal?”

 

“Of course. Of course.”

 

“My ever-predictable associates.”

 

Yuldashev laughs, seats himself right up next. “I’ll be pleased to eh, uh… spread the wealth. Actually --”

 

The camera picks up and gives a pan of the garage while Yuldashev gives voice over - “I’m willing to extend my services to you, to your associates. Predictable that you may need… Я не знаю, respray. Maybe license plate change.”

 

Camera swoops over the entire garage from street level while the tutorial goes. Pay and Spray. While it goes down, more people wave from the windows, a car comes in from the end of the alley.

 

“Again, thank you, Yuldashev.”

 

“Hey, is no problem. Remember--”

 

Bang.

 

His head gets blown near-clean off.

 

“NEXT ONE IS FROM MOTYA F*CKING SHVEDIK!”

 

Outta clean f*cking nowhere gunfire starts hailing down - a bunch of Russian goons with AKs on the fire escapes, two in the Scion at the end blasting with shotguns. You turn for the exit, white van screeches up in to block and the rear doors swing open.

 

“ВЫ НЕ ТРАХАЕТЕСЬ С ДЕТЬМИ!”

YOU DON’T F*CK WITH A MAN’S CHILDREN!

 

Felix dives into the garage soon as they begin unloading, bullets striking rubber and metal and ceramic. Cover in the doorframe with the rest of the garage to spare, easy way of getting the guys on the fire escapes. Pop, pop, pop - rest of the hit squad is about to roll into the garage.

 

Get away. 

 

There’s ample cover inside - cars being worked on, tools and toolboxes, machinery, the Remington. Round the side, off the hood, guys come bursting through balaclava-clad and bullets fly. Wherever you are, they dig deep into what’s in front of you, Remington tire bursts and the car sinks its rims into the concrete as it deflates and the bullets bounce and it glows hot red in the craters. 

 

If you’re playing it smart you angle around the corner and pull the shotgun from its hiding spot on the passenger seat while their numbers are thin - surprise, f*cko: they’re surely not expecting much in the way of firepower so they get an extra shock when they’re blasted back into tire piles and tool heaps by 12 gauge. Their herd soon stops crouching in from under the door Yuldashev had closed mostly-but-not-completely: before they’re all dust someone’s stray bullet blasts the button mechanism to sh*t and it slams shut. 

 

Back door’s a death sentence: courtyard’s walled in and who knows if they still got numbers on the fire escapes. Thankfully you’re in a garage - assign the shotgun to one hand and find a lone crowbar lying around; there’s bound to be a dozen. Grab one by the glass blocks peeking into the office - they’ve been blasted apart, you can see inside that the TV’s in a million pieces, someone cowering in the corner must not have had a gun so they stayed put. 

 

Not your problem.

 

Get to the door - essentially dead weight, f*cker’s heavy as hell. Dynamic minigame puts you in the position of prying it open just enough for Felix to peek under and ensure all he sees outside are the barrage of ticketed cars before really putting his foot down, stomping the metal hard enough for the garage door to fly upward along the track, ricochet off the stopper on the ceiling. Daylight awaits.

 

You got Shvedik’s boys off your back, good on you - but sirens are honing in and there are half a dozen bodies bleeding into concrete. 

 

“Пиздец на хуй блядь.”

What a f*cking clusterf*ck.

 

Clusterf*ck means run. 

 

As soon as you start hoofing it a LCPD cruiser makes its turn around the same corner the Pony was parked earlier - light goes off with that realization but they’re all dead anyway, problem is if you’re headed in the same direction you’ve already been seen and Felix couldn’t be more conspicuous if he tried. f*ck.

 

Alleyways, a godsend - a million nooks and crannies across the boroughs mean a million places to run through, hide in, cross to evade a line of sight through the smells and the muck and the homeless that know better than to snitch about which direction you ran. Search radius isn’t all, and it’s peripheral to the concept of foot-cops having their eyes on you meaning a whole heap of trouble. You’re safe even inside the radius as long as you’re outside their gaze, but they won’t stop looking ‘til you’re outta there.

 

Gennady needs to hear what happened. Oh god, does he ever. 

 

Payphone. Stat. Again, you’re not in lack but be sure to patronize one off the main streets - if you’ve still got it Felix puts his shotty atop the booth, struts his collar out from his neck. Scowls and dials.

 

“Gennady. Speak.”

 

“Is Felix.”

 

“Ah, yes… compatriot. How'd it go?”

 

“He's dead.”

 

“Y- I- what?!”

 

“Car is gone. Shot to sh*t. Drugs is gone. You hurt his f*cking kids?”

 

“Yuldashev kids in f*cking Bukhara you f*cking chump!”

 

“Motya.”

 

Deep breath on the other end. “Bozhe moy.”

 

“What the f*ck you do to Motya Shvedik’s goddamn kids?!”

 

“The Remington was Benny’s--”

 

“I don't care about f*cking land yacht, I care about pissing off crazy f*cking nutjob! Crazy nutjob who send half a f*cking army to come kill this f*cking guy, what the f*ck you f*cking do?!”

 

“Wasn't meant for no goddamn kids! His kids are fine.”

 

“So what the f*ck?!”

 

“We put a bomb on his car. The bomb go loose and the thing don't go off and he find the f*cking thing hanging off his muffler when he pick up his kids for school.”

 

“You did what?”

 

“Well, janitor found it.”

 

“He come f*cking try to kill me you f*cking idiot!”

 

“I'm your goddamn boss, you don't forget this sh*t!”

 

“You my boss? You become boss of f*cking paste I didn't make it out of there! This Yuldashev f*cking old man don't got no goddamn head no more!”

 

“And Benny Saravaisky don't have no car.”

 

“Why the f*ck he use his own goddamn car for delivery?! That's probably why they try to kill me you--”

 

Nondescript scream on the other end. Line goes dead.

 

“Gennady? Gennady, hello?”

 

Pause a moment.

 

Slam the phone a few times into the glass before letting it hang off it’s wire.

 

“Глупая сука!”

Stupid f*cking bitch!

 

Phone left buzzing and beeping and you left with a headache. Whatever. Guess you’ll walk back home.

 

+ Sumpmark 600

 

RUSSIAN SHOOTINGS NOTHING TO FEAR, SAY LCPD

By Betzalel Vaksmakher

Another rash of shootings in the Hove Beach area have led to panic among a community of Russian emigres - and warnings from police that said panic is unfounded.

 

In Goatherd, mechanic Shernazar Innokentyevich Yuldashev was found dead in his garage, along with a rash of several other Russian men all toting weapons, and an illicit stash of drugs stored in a car with an, as of writing, unnamed owner. Many suspect foul play. The police gave a simple explanation. A lover’s quarrel.

 

“The Russian-Jewish community has been slighted with simply spurious allegations: of fostering racketeering and extortion, of criminals gone - pardon my language - bananas,” Sergeant Dolph Beckler of the LCPD’s 67th Precinct and outspoken campaigner for police affairs told a reporter for Emigrant. “Nonsense. No matter how many shootings, gang crime isn’t in Jewish neighborhoods. Drug crime isn’t in Jewish neighborhoods. What is this, 1920? The problem is crack; and I’d know. I’ve been fighting it for the better part of a decade.”

 

Not much has been disclosed of Yuldashev: a devout conservative Jew and ‘unassuming old man’ according to local conjecture. Some have speculated in the past that his mechanics office on 19th Street, the scene of the crime, was a front for an illicit motor theft ring, and the associates found dead alongside him were members of a loosely-affiliated band of thieves known as “Motya’s Brigada” - named for a criminal still believed to be at large in Tel Aviv. Beckler speculated the man, contrary to his religious beliefs, could have slept with any number of women, or something, or whatever, before telling us to leave.

 

“There is no Russian mafia,” said local restaurant owner and philanthropist (and owner of Emigrant) Kuzma Petrovich, an interview he happily gave adorned with a yarmulke at a Goatherd soup kitchen. Giving borscht to homeless and orphans, or so we assume as the soup kitchen was empty at the time of the interview, Kuzma beamed with a ladle in hand alongside Rabbi Shlomo Stiglitz, happy to slip three $100 dollar notes into this reporter’s shirt pocket as a sign of goodwill. “In Russia, the only mafia were the Communists. Here, we have found an escape.”

 

We couldn’t agree more.

Article translated from Russian.

Edited June 21, 2021 by slimeball supreme

[Cebra]

 

Switch to Adrian - could’ve switched before but go ahead now, static effect as the camera swoops into the sky and flies over clouds before ducking down, down down, into suburban Lennox Island. A lot of little brick one-or-two stories, white picket fences and greenery a world away from urbania, a million more Manganos and Morellis than you’d find across the river.

 

It’s noon; you can find protagonist Adrian doing a lot of things, snacks or breakfast or music or the like, getting nagged on by his grandmother. Now, however, the camera lingers on him in the backyard.

 

Green lawn, stone-white angel statues and wrought iron chairs. Picture perfect. He’s sat down. Writing in his notebook.

 

He pauses.

 

“F*ck.”

 

Checks the time, roll-up sleeve and his cheapo Kakagawa digital watch. He’s late. Late? I mean. maybe. Never exactly late in this line of work, but f*ck it right? Roy’s waiting. 

 

Roy’s always waiting. 

 

Blip pops up on your radar as Adrian gets to his feet, big R miles away. You’re Broker-bound today, like most days.

 

Head inside or go around the house, overgrowth and a gate to the left or right, but straight behind you is the back patio, some pavings with the hose and the lawn mower and whatnot, the glass sliding doors belying the interior of the two-family home. Only half inhabited. Inside are granite-topped counters, dining table, Nonna Tessa running ragged inside with the phone’s wire coiling around kitchen island.

 

“Age,” she coos frantic-like. “You seen my keys?”

 

“Huh?”
 

“Keys, car keys, key car car key. I can’t find ‘em and the boss is--”

 

“I got ‘em.”

 

This encounter coulda’ gone two ways - you slipped into the wrong one.

 

“Hand ‘em over, c’mon.”

 

“I need to see- I was gonna see some friends.”

 

“Friends like yours ain’t friends. They’ll just break windows one-down, I need my keys.”

 

“It’s part-time work, nonna.”

 

“Please hand me my keys, Adrian.”

 

There’s no choice in the matter. Pull them out the back pocket of your Ranches, dingle-dangle them disappointed. Nonna near-throws the phone and scrambles for them and snatches out of your hands. 

 

“Like that gook--”

 

“Adrian! Changgok. Mr. Changgok.”

 

“Whatever he--”

 

“I raised you better than that!”

 

“I’m--”

 

“None of that in my house. None of that!”

 

“Okay, nonna! Okay.”

 

She squints. “For shame.”

 

Leaves.

 

F*ck.

 

Hear the engine rumble and piss off from the driveway: you’re stranded. You coulda skipped this encounter by going around the side of the house and hopping in the car, but y’know. Your grandma would be stranded instead. If she beats you to the car, which is more often than not, you’ll need to find an alternative means of transport. It’s not too difficult, granted, especially for those who don’t mind a carjacking. But it is, if anything, an inconvenience.

 

Cairndow.

 

You’re kind of in a double bind when it comes to transit: you’re in the worst borough in the city. Closest bus stop is a couple blocks away from your little neighborhood street and the only subway line rides north-to-south, and most importantly, doesn’t leave the island. Hop it to the bus stop and you’ll be free to ride the line into South Broker Weir Ridge-way. Or just nick a car and travel up the Vespucci-Passage.

 

Regardless, it’s a decent trek.

 

The Vespucci-Passage is a long motherf*cking bridge, sweeping shots of bay and skyscraper that flow into brownstone. It flows past the Baldric Parkway and the aging walls of Fort Harris and the golf course spanning mile after mile. You’re in Broker now: a Little Italy too large for its name. Bantonvale, Weir Ridge - it’s all colorful storefronts, elevated train tracks, bakeries and butcheries and furniture stores.

 

Bus has a terminus a little ways away from the meeting spot. Book it, or don’t.

 

On 18th Avenue there’s an empty lot, used to be an apartment block until it burned down in the 80’s. It’s a lot of rubble and grass growing and the remnants of what they used to demolish the ruins, cracked cement barriers and walls up against the other brownstones. Right in front - three folding chairs.

 

Eric, Jonnie, and Roy.

 

Roy’s in a red sweater with the sleeves rolled up and these fat plat rings, arms folded, leaning back. Eric’s listening. Jonnie’s talking. On the approach, it gets clearer: “--he’s telling me what, he’s telling me f*ckin’ nothing. Fuggedaboutit.”

 

“Y’know, Jon-boy,” Roy goes, “maybe these guys tell you that ‘cause they hate f*ckin’ being around you.”

 

“C’mon.”

 

“You gotta judge a guy’s character. They judged your character, thought youse were a f*ckin’ cokehead sleaze, told you to f*ck off.”

 

Eric laughs, kicks a pebble, nods up to you. “Age.”

 

Roy now, “Took you f*ckin’ long enough, Adrian.”

 

“Sh*t with my nonna, Roy.” Depending on what happened over at the house, this dialogue might be different. Roy doesn’t take the excuse anyway, cocks a brow, but it’s worth a shot.

 

“Your ma works at one of those Korean places,” Jon asks. “Right?”

 

Adrian ignores, “I have to f*ckin’ race her for the car. Either I get it or I don’t.”

 

“F*ckin’ committed,” Roy goes.

 

“What? My fault?”

 

He stands, “You're livin’ with your grandma and usin’ her f*ckin’ ride. What, this part time?”

 

“C’mon, Roy.”

 

“This is big boy sh*t.”

 

“It's all I can do right now, man.”

 

Roy breezes past, looks to the others, “C’mon, guys.”

 

The guys get up.

 

“What's goin’ on? We goin’?”

 

“We’re goin’, Age,” Junior says.

 

Roy, “Chop chop.”

 

Chop chop is right, follow along. The guys cross the street past Albanys on the curb and broke fire alarm boxes to Bantonvale greater: townhouses brandishing the green, white and red and pizza parlor after pizza parlor. It's Little Italy.

 

The guys walk ahead in a three. You can lag behind or keep up, if the latter the boys'll spread a tad to accommodate your position. You're a posse, a pack.

 

Roy starts again, “There's this guy, he sells these discount autos out Europe--”

 

“You f*ckin’ kidding me?”

 

“What, Age?”

 

“What? What I say?”

 

“Like I can afford that sh*t.”

 

“Hey, that’ll change.”

 

“Yeah, go to the lotto, peel off some scratchers,” Age snipes. “Make it a day.”

 

Eric, “Eh.”

 

Beat. “Huh?” Adrian goes.

 

Junior laughs, “See, we won the f*ckin’ lotto already.”

 

“You peoples is speakin’ just f*ckin’ metaphors today, huh? Spit the sh*t the f*ck out.”

 

“We’re seein’ Butchie.”

 

Get a groan outta Age, “So we’re playing cloak and dagger because a’ capos?”

 

Eric lowers his voice, “Ya’ never know who’s listening.”

 

“The day we get up on Bureau corkboards,” Age goes, “is the day Jon kicks blow and we graduate to f*ckin’ 401Ks. You think anyone gives a f*ck about us, you’re insane.”

 

“Now, now, Adrian,” Roy keeps on the lead, “Butchie’s happy with what happened up at the game.”

 

“We nearly got brained.”

 

“We got some dough.”

 

“We didn’t get most a’ the dough. We coulda’ got fifties and made it out with fives and table cash. Some wiseguy pinky rings. You wanna count the brass from the shotgun shells?”

 

“You cannot put a price on sentimental value, Agey-boy.”

 

“We have to put a price on it, Jon, you f*ckin’ numbnuts. We’re not stealin’ memories.”

 

Roy snaps, “Shut it.” It’s time.

 

Butchie Bove runs a butcher shop or a pork store or whatever the f*ck you’d call it up the street from Destiny Park. Down there it’s chess tables and playgrounds where the junkies might gather, but Butchie’s spot is this proud, wide market with green text on beige.

 

Bove Family Pork & Meats

SALUMERIA - BUTCHER - CATERING

The Secret You Won’t Wanna Keep!

 

There’s a little seating area outside with a bunch of chairs and tables with checkered tablecloth - place is either empty or the guys seated there don’t allow many strangers. Today it’s the latter, a lot of old Italians with paunches and tracksuits lounging; reading, talking, one’s got a sun reflector soaking rays.

 

They give you a look as you head inside.

 

It’s a maze of meat.

 

“You smell that?”

 

“Meat, Jon?”

 

“Them good meats.”

 

Sure.

 

You’re immediately shadowed by a silent-guy type with an arm cast and this dumb stare who seems to respond to eye contact by weirdly squinting and scrunching his face. That’s Clarkie. Don’t say hi, he won’t respond, just keep following Roy through the meat maze past jars of anchovies and neighborhood ladies with shopping carts full of cheese wheels and antipasto. A door opens and you’re blasted with cold air into the back where kitchen guys in kitchen whites are hacking carcasses with knives and wiping sweaty brows with rubber gloves.

 

Butchie is one of them. He’s working some veal and his apron is covered with blood when he turns, “Madon’, f*ckin’ finally, eh?” It’s friendly, he drops his knife and comes in for the hug and lets a Puerto Rican employee of his take over.

 

Embraces Roy like a grandfather, Roy near-winces in fear of stains. “Traffic, you know.”

 

But no blood comes off. “You coulda’ come down early, I’d a’ been more prepared. Made some heroes, f*ck it.”

 

“That easy?”

 

“That easy. You brought the boys, huh? Adrian.”

 

This awkward half-wave, “Hi, Butch.”

 

“That’s good. C’mon, c’mon.”

 

You’re herded into the back office - there’s a fan going because the room doesn’t have good AC even if the air outside is winter-cold and opening the doors lets in ice-chill. It’s okay sized, a little couch and a mini-fridge, though six people’s probably pushing it.

 

“Clarkie?”

 

“Yeah, boss?”

 

“Can you f*ck off, would ya’?”

 

“Well, I was--”

 

“Please, f*ck off.”

 

Clarkie scrunches face and f*cks off. Roy chuckles, “This guy, huh?”

 

Butch just shrugs. “Things is things. How’s things, Zeets? How’s your brother? He still a f*ckin’ retard?”

 

“Kinda.”

 

“Kinda. Good youse is seein’ changes. Good about that.” He goes to address you and the others, “There’s sodies in the fridge. Beam or the Sprunk, you know.”

 

You and Jon have already taken to the comforts afforded - Jon sits, you lean by the wall. Both decline. Eric’s the exception, he’s still pacing, reaches into his flight jacket and pulls out a wad of money. “Roy said you wanted some cut a’ the thing.”

 

Butch just eyes it.

 

“‘Cause we ain’t here for f*ckin’ no soda.”

 

Does a little wag of the finger, “Who are you again?”

 

“Eric, Butch. Eric Lo Iacono. I wasn’t here--”

 

“La Eye-a-Corner. Got it. I don’t want no money. I told Roy, youse can keep it. I told you, right?”

 

Roy, “That's right, Butchie.”

 

Back to Eric, “I don’t know you, kid. Keep to sir. Okay?”

 

“Yeah, sir.”

 

Nods. “I know you got the boys in East Holland a bit screwy. Guappo ass f*ckin’ Joe Gervasi goes whinin’ to the big boys about this thing, about his game, says it’s outta line. I am very happy seeing that prick squirm.”

 

“Can’t snitch on nobody when you don’t know who ya’ snitchin’ on.”

 

“Precise-a-f*ckin’-lise-ly,” Butch chuckles. “Precisely. You guys make a good buck at the game?”

 

Roy shrugs, “We needa’ pawn some things, but it’ll be okay. Coulda’ been better.”

 

“Pavana’s are still mad, so f*ck if I care.” He puts his hand up, “Old news. I got youse more gossip.”

 

Gossip means orders. “Sure,” Age says.

 

Sure. Gets Butch to lean back in his leather desk chair smug-like and intertwine his fingers and grin a toothless grin, “Love ta’. You heard a’ Ollie Lulu?”

 

Roy, “No.”

 

“I known this guy too long. Too long. Zip f*ck with a zip ‘stache and- whatever. Runs with the Messinas.”

 

“So nobody.”

 

“Sure. He lives up Dukes or Bohan or sum’n and goes to Canada f*ckin’ eight days a’ the f*ckin’-” Butch interrupts himself again, gets breathing a little quicker. “I gotta hand it to him. I gotta hand it to him. He’s clever. This guy gets his own on the protection, the fees, up Schottler and Cork Villa and North Broker. He’s been doin’ this for years. And he ain’t even live there, he ain’t even capo there.”

 

“Yeah,” Roy laughs. “F*ckin’ genius.”

 

“And it’s funny.” Butch says. “We run those patches. And these Messina guys can come step on us and f*ckin’ get away with it. And they don’t even tell nobody. They just got back on the Commission and they pull this.”.

 

Eric frowns. “That don’t sound clever to me. Sounds--”

 

But Butch blasts past, “Ollie the Canuck f*ck from Canada has these two kids workin’ for him. Volpes, Mark and Fredo. These Volpe kids are built like f*cking brick walls, lucky guy, smart picks, and they play smart and hit f*ckers clever so they don’t say nothin’ to nobody.”

 

Age perks, “You want ‘em on an express ticket?”

 

“Nah,” Butch goes. “Their buttons got just delivered.” Translation: made men.

 

“So what?”

 

“There’s this jewelry store. Ran by this Middle-Eastern Persian Iranian f*cking guy and his little dick kid. I got the address,” slides a little piece of paper to Roy. “You can pay him a visit. Say howdy-f*ckin’-do. They drive this cream Albo Secousse, hip car. If it’s parked outside, those cool Volpe kids is there and you can say hi. If the car ain’t there, then the owner, his name’s Jafari, he’ll be right over. But I have a feelin’ he’s there.”

 

Roy just nods. “Fellas.”

 

Butch leans back, smiles, waves as the guys leave. “Hurry! Youse might miss a hello.”

 

Hurry is right, you cut straight from the office to streetside where Junior points out his good ol’ Accomplice. “You drove all the way up here, walked down to Roy, then walked back up?” Irrelevant - you got two choices. It’s styled like LA Noire’s driving system, press the contextual button to drive up to Cork Villa yourself, or hold the button down to pass the wheel to Junior or Roy.

 

Eric can’t drive right now; still has his license confiscated from that DUI.

 

If you’re driving, you’re driving. If you’re not, it’s sweeping cinematic shots as the car’s stuck in traffic and dialogue plays out - you can skip the ride like a taxi if you want. Eric just snaps, “What the f*ck was he talking about the f*ck back there?”

 

“Y’know,” Roy goes, nonchalant. “What we’re doing.”

 

“He told us to f*ckin’ visit them and f*ckin’ say hi. The f*ck?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“That’s not what he meant,” Age sighs.

 

“Yo, he didn’t want a cut?!” That’s Jon. “We gonna take bumps up for this sh*t and get a little extra, or what?”

 

Adrian, “Why didn’t you tell us, Roy?”

 

“Youse- well, I was- you needed the encouragement.”

 

“Prick.”

 

“I wasn’t gettin’ your hopes up!”

 

“We gettin’ more cash, Roy?”

 

“When we sell this f*ckin’ watch and those pinky rings and that, sure. You’ll get what he was gettin’. We get the calculators out, f*ck it. Do some accounting.”

 

“Prick,” more playful. Roy just laughs.

 

It’s a decent drive cross-borough as you get the workman’s tour from south to north. The brownstones are still brown, but crossing through the ethnic neighborhoods and the overhead train tracks and the broken windows, you’re passing into where the whites live.

 

That means the brownstones are cleaner and the cops don’t like the litter so much.

 

Jafari’s Jeweler is aptly named… Jafari’s Jewels. It’s on 7th Avenue past a lot of those historic white facade apartments, where the street signs are still black and the residentials came before the storefronts. It’s got an immediately recognizable black paint job and gold lettering, underneath the name screaming HAND-PAINTED FINE LUXURY QUALITY until the cows come home.

 

The windows are shuttered, way too early. And more importantly, a cream Secousse waits out front with a parking ticket.

 

“Is that white or is it cream?”

 

“He said cream, Jon,” Roy says. “Looks cream.”

 

Eric, “S'got, y’know, a bit of melanin in it. Look at it in the sun, c’mon. Cream.”

 

Adrian spins, “The f*ck are you talking about? You mean pigment, right?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“You said melanin, like f*ckin’ skin.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“To be honest,” Jon mutters, “thing looks champagne to me.”

 

A well-oiled machine.

 

Get close to the door with the cute red sign reading Sorry, We’re Closed and you’ll hear banging. Shouting. It’s not a cutscene yet as Roy gets close, wiggles the door handle a little before cracking a grin. “It’s open.”

 

Now it’s cutscene.

 

Camera opts for an angle in the corner as the Brothers Volpe work their magic - Fredo, this rat-faced looking guy with curls who stands lanky, paces the room with eyes darting everywhere except the entrance. Mark is different, he’s big, built hard and handsome with his hair slicked back and this snarl. He’s slapping a little Persian man, the one and only Jafari, right around with open palms, holding him by the scruff of his collar.

 

“We've been here all day you sand monkey motherf*cker,” Mark is saying. “All f*ckin’ day!”

 

“I- look, you are- you have to--”

 

Pap, another dumb f*cking slap to the top of Jafari’s bald head. “You what? You f*cking what? What you have to f*cking do, dumbass?”

 

Fredo says nothing.

 

He looks.

 

Looks to the door.

 

And sees eyes looking back at him.

 

“Hey--”

 

Doors burst open and sunlight streams in with the shadows of you and three others, note how there’s already missing jewels and broken glass and an open door at the manager’s office.

 

Enter: the Bantonvale Boys.

 

“What the f*ck is this?!”

 

Roy takes leadership as the pack splinters off to the sides, “You were warned, Volpe.”

 

“Who the f*ck warned me? Who the f*ck are you?” Drops Iranian to the ground and lets him scramble away, “This pencil-neck fa**ot fanook thinks he's a f*ckin’ gangster, huh? Come on!”

 

“This ain’t your patch.”

 

“You bet, fa**ot?”

 

He bets - fists are prepped.

 

It’s two against four in what’s most likely your first example of the game’s melee combat. No holds barred slugfests where the choreography is less choreography and more scumbags slinging fists and arms wild, eye gouging shin kicking sh*t. No rules, no art of war.

 

Fredo plays smart and goes for the gut or kicks at the legs; tries to maintain distance, this ain’t his forté. Mark has no scruples - grabs Eric by the shoulders and slams him into a display on the sides, carousel prongs in the back, tries pummeling only to get pulled off by Jon with an arm around the neck. It's your choice who to go for, either help Jon and Eric by slamming fists into captive Mark or try grabbing Fredo as he flails legs.

 

Eventually, something gives. Mark breaks free, half-runs-more-scurries to the manager’s office and picks up a little something-something from behind the open door. Aluminum baseball bat. The playing field levels.

 

Everyone backs away, Mark just swings. Wild swinging with no intended target, taunting complete anarchy more than anything else while the guy is swearing up a storm - “Two faced f*cking motherf*cking cocksuckers come on, what, f*ckin’ pussies- c’mon! Fredo! C’mon!” If you get too close, the motherf*cker slams you to the ground by the head and wipes off a chunk of health.

 

Mark narrows on Roy; Eric takes the challenge, launches onto the guy’s back like a chimp.

 

Mark drops the bat a moment to claw at Eric’s face, Eric just screams, pushes and smooshes and pulls hair, uses the momentum to slam Mark’s head into a glass display case. You see blood drizzle and things get worse; drizzle turns stream and Roy picks up the bat and hits Mark in the back, and hits and hits and--

 

A door opens with push-bar echoing. Emergency exit. Light floods in from the other side, footsteps. Fredo’s getting away.

 

Get Fredo.

 

Roy and Eric have Mark so it's on you and Jon, burst out after him into a maze of alley and follow in the direction of noise. Fredo has pace on his side and plays crafty, darts to the sides and grips walls and tosses trash cans to block.

 

Even in this city there's only so much alley.

 

There's a fence to jump and Fredo only just clears it, you hear him grunt and, when you and Jonnie get over, see him slamming and slamming into a metal door to escape. Door doesn't budge. He turns, gives you puppy dog eyes, yields fast with hands up.

 

“Look, I didn’t want no part of this, alright?! Wouldn’t- wouldn’t hurt a man with nowhere left to go, huh? C’mon! It's Mark, Mark was- c’mon!”

 

Jon, “You're Fredo?”

 

Adrian mocks. “Big bad Freddy Volpe.”

 

“Look- look,” he’s getting smaller, backing into a corner, “I’ll go. I’ll go! I don’t know youse, youse don't know me, I mean- we’ve already- we’ve already done enough, man, we’ll leave the f*ckin’--”

 

“You’ll leave the Arab alone?”

 

“Won’t get a f*ckin’ scratch! I swear!”

 

He's in no position to bargain. But is that enough?

 

Hands on century-old brick, rock and a hard place. Pitiable sight, he’s 30 seconds from blubbering into filthy concrete. He’s at your whims.

 

Choice. You let him whimper away, he’s got the message loud and clear - give him a few seconds more staredown and he realizes you’re letting him off easy, double-triple checks with an uneasy glare before hoofing it past rotten garbage bags God-knows-where to change his pants. 

 

Or - you’re half a contextual melee into making sure your point’s a home run; he’s practically on his knees now. Kick him and Age lobs a side foot right into the chin, something pops, Fredo collapses with screams piercing and scratching and clawing at a broken jaw - you leave him in fetal position. Else punch-wise Jon gets in on the action: waits for the nod before lifting Fredo by the scruff, lets Age wind-wind-wind for effect before popping him straight across the face. When blood flies from split lips or nose or both he goes limp, gets dropped like a bad habit.

 

Jon wipes hands and looks down the alley. “Think we made too much noise?”

 

Age shrugs, “Like the yuppies holed up ‘round here got the balls to come take a look, this ain’t Maschapi. Let ‘im rest.”

 

Take the long way ‘round - Fredo didn’t make it too far, 7th Ave cross-street alley behind the coffee bar and synagogue on the corner. Main streets speak Age’s prophecy, couple oblivious suits and sundresses dotting otherwise barren sidewalks. Lunch hour stragglers.

 

Adrian and Jon walk in lockstep, have some back and forth on the way.

 

Age: “Eric really flips like a f*ckin’ switch, huh?”

 

“Always been like that. Asked around ‘bout when he got pinched in ‘83, ‘84, whenever - never asked him what the beef was about but the stories, they run downhill. Grapevine sh*t.”

 

“Heard it was about some cooze.”

 

“I dunno. Kid lost an f*ckin’ eye though, had to get that reconstructive surgery sh*t. And, you know, juvie stint after telling the judge to go f*ck himself?” Laughs. “I mean, that’s Eric. f*ckin’ balls like nothing and you know Roy loves it.”

 

“Yeah.” Age pauses, “Don’t think Butchie likes him none though.”

 

“Butchie’s, you know- Butchie’s Butchie. Eric’s prickly. Honestly, youse lucky he goes outta his way to pay you any mind, Adrian.” Picks words carefully. “It’s just Roy and- y’know- Butch’s a nice guy and everything- but I dunno. Couldn’t pay me some, y’know, courtesy after everything my father’s done for him? Something more than some f*ckin’ sodies?”

 

Waits on a response - Age doesn’t bite, he knows better.

 

Caps it. “But I dunno. Whatever.”

 

Storefront’s still shuttered - ‘cept now there’s a little trail of blood droplets from gilded doorway to empty, Albo-less spot by the curb. Inside, Eric and Roy crowded around the manager’s door, Eric arms-crossed, twitchy, Roy leaning on the doorway with the bloodied bat against the wall nearby. The place has known better days.

 

Age and Jon pull up, stand back.

 

“-and, I mean, I think I speak for us all here when I say that getting the Volpe boys off your back, that ain’t no small feat. You’d agree, right - that this, it could’ve gone a lot worse a lot quicker, huh?”

 

Jafari’s seated, rubbing his dome either ‘cause it’s sore or it’s just a tic. “You- Mister Roy, please, I cannot truly give you my gratitude in any-”

 

Eric stops twitching for a sec and pops into the doorway, “Sure you f*ckin’ can.”

 

Roy plays the game. “He ain’t wrong.”

 

Jafari looks up, alternates quick glares between the Bantonvale Boys before standing up in a hurry, making for the doorway. “Okay. Okay- okay, I get you something, just give me a moment, just-”

 

Eric blocks his path. “Lemme’ come.”

 

Jafari lets it register, nods frantically as he grabs keys from pocket and leaves the manager’s office for another office, locked up behind shattered display cases and shadowed by Eric.

 

“Move it, c’mon.”

 

Just the three of you.

 

Roy shrugs, pops himself down on Jafari’s office chair and starts playing with a loupe on the desk. Gives Age a staredown with one eye closed, lens on the other, goofy kid grin.

 

“These things is stupid looking.”

 

Jon: “Whaddaya call ‘em?”

 

Age watches on as Roy gives the thing a real look-over. “It’s a loupe.”

 

“It’s a loupe. Think it’s worth copping, Age?”

 

“God no. My cousin Brando, he used to work the cash at some jeweler in Kust Stadt - things go for a dub at best. There’s probably ten of them in that drawer there.”

 

Roy opens that drawer there. At least ten.

 

“Gonna turn your nose up at two hundred bucks?”

 

“C’mon, Roy…”

 

“You two dealt with that f*ckin’ piscialeet’?”

 

Jon, “Done and dealt. I’d say we came through for Butchie in f*ckin’ sp-”

 

Eric walks in with Jafari behind, interrupts without hesitation by tossing Roy a little tied-up silk bag. “Check this sh*t out.”

 

Unties a cute little string, empties the contents into his palm: “Oh man,” Roy holds it up to the light between index and thumb, angle from above all too familiar while light dances wild in the fluorescent glare. “These is some beautiful f*ckin’ roughies. Age, check it out.”

 

He does. “Roughies is right,” looks over at the still-tepid jeweler, “can’t move these as-is. The hell you doing with uncut gems, Jafari?”

 

Says “No” to a question that wasn’t a yes-or-no. “No- I, we- is no matter, please take them as reward. Please, it is my pleasure- please take them with you.”

 

Jon laughs. “They’s blood diamonds.”

 

Eric doesn’t. “The f*ck we gonna do with that?”

 

Loupe hits table, Roy stands. “Ayy, no sulking, gentlemen. Let’s get outta here.”

 

No second word - Roy’s on two feet, the boys take turns shrugging before following suit. Jafari just kinda watches, pokes at his head.

 

“And you,” Roy spins around with the door half-open, angle stands high to display the store’s absolute state of ruin, “anything like this happens again, pieces of sh*t like that walk in thinkin’ they own the place… you know who to call.”

 

Jafari does a lot of nodding. Frantic.

 

Back into daylight, street still dead quiet as everyone walks back to Jon’s car across the street, Eric goes “So f*cking what?”

 

Roy’s all smiles. “So I know this great Jew in District Park, friend of Gabriel’s, pawn guy who used to offload glove box loot.”

 

“What’s a guy offloads sterling silver and old books gonna do with rough-cut ice?”

 

“Nah, not him, this guy’s high-end, ain’t nothin’ like Gabe. Y’know, difference between pawnshop and loan office sorta thing. Real f*ckin’ hebes, name’s Mori Green.”

 

Get to the SUV and Age’s designated driver this time. “Alright, let’s get it over with.”

 

South Broker: winding avenue passing around the solemn time capsule of Pierrepont Cemetery, black-clad grievers through wrought iron and lots of lunch-shuttered storefronts and tree-lined sidewalks.

 

Roy pokes. “What’d Butchie say the guy got the Volpes on the leash’s name was? Lolly f*ckin’ Lulu, some sh*t like that?”

 

Eric, “Ollie.”

 

“Yeah. f*ckin’ name. Thinks I’ve heard word about him come down from Bohan, come to think, pretty sure he owns some jewelry store himself up there. Real big mouth.”

 

Jon. “Whaddaya gonna do, Butchie says he’s in with the Messinas and a f*ckin’- uh... F*ckin’- Adrian, hey- what’s the opposite of a snowbird? Y’know, moron Canadians go down to Vice for some sun and blow, but- but the opposite.”

 

“A prick.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Button or no I’ll put a hole in both f*ckin’ Volpe’s heads myself ‘fore I ever let a Messina keep me up at night. Believe you me.”

 

Wasn’t the longest ride, really just a straight line dodging park grounds - and you’re here. Green’s place is as described - certainly ain’t no pawn shop, no barred windows or skeevy digs, typical District red brick townhouse, gold accents and big wood garage doors.

 

“It’s uh- it’s the stairs down over there.”

 

Park up. Get out. The stairs over there are the stairs down there, driveway slope under parallel the front steps of a place real prim and proper, stone flower pots lining the walkway and over-tailored lace curtains in big living room window. Whatever - you’re headed down.

 

“You sure he’s down here? Thought Jews like these didn’t like the dark none.”

 

Age goes for it, knows maybe it was a joke but doesn’t take chances on Jon: “The f*ck does that mean?

 

Doesn’t get an answer anyway. Roy pounds on the door. Silence, a lot of it - then a slot moves horizontal, beady eyes squint: smile. Door opens wide.

 

Shortish guy, bad hunch. Corduroy sweater vest, smart collar, hasidic curls framing a face fast approaching middle age - but he’s happy to see you if nothing else, opens arms wide and gestures everybody inside and gets touchy-touchy with their shoulders as they walk past: “Ahh, Roy, long time, long time.” Soft voice.

 

Place inside is, if nothing else, cozy - see the door’s metal-reinforced on the interior, place totally scattered with trinkets; not pawn-shop sh*t, not at all - antiques, unmatched chairs and carved wood tables, grandfather clocks. You know it smells old, parquet flooring and tin ceilings hitting it home.

 

“Boys. Boys. What can I do for ya’? I don’t- uh--” Gets disturbed real quick - by the back wall next to a series of dressers draped in fabric, foggy glass hiding a staircase going up, bunch of kids - just boys, really - go running, running and playing, something electronic in hand, early double digits holding their kippahs tight.

 

“Hey!” snaps fingers, “Hey!” You’d think he’s yelling - Mori Green doesn’t yell.

 

Taller boy in full get-up shadowing the kiddy train with another older though, he hears. Acts like he doesn’t.

 

“Isaac, get in here!”

 

He does, head bowed and curls dangling, typical teenage little sh*t. Comes close, Bantonvale Boys start fidgeting, Roy takes up his throne on some filing cabinets. Kid peps up, his attitude might just as well have been for show.

 

“Yeah, Mori?”

 

“Come on, tatte. Mir hobn gest. Get- bring the boys back upstairs, will ya? Just give us a couple minutes. Close the door after you, huh?”

I have guests.

 

Kid doesn’t talk, you get the idea he doesn’t talk much at all - kinda mumbles as he walks off and herds the kids away with the other, shepherds them up the stairs and shuts the door as the air hangs heavy.

 

Roy’s all smiles now. “Protege?”

 

“Eh, something like that.” Mori’s on two feet, clears his desk and shoves clutter in drawers and moves-moves-moves. “He’s uh, he sang in the choir at the synagogue. Kid’s a smart nut, lemme tell you - straight A, klug like nothing. Real drive. You didn’t hear, he got a speech impediment- one of those you can’t uh, can’t enunciate your Rs, you know? And he ain’t let that stop him from the choir, nothin’ but success in school. An Ivy Leaguer in the making, no doubt- you know, bezrat hashem.”

 

He takes a seat on the corner of his desk, interlaces fingers. “What can I do for ya’ today?”

 

Boys’re tired. Roy pulls the sack from jacket pocket, silk or satin, whatever - hands it right over. 

 

Mori knows what he’s holding.

 

“Oh, boys, boys. What’d you get into this time?”

 

Roy shrugs. “Some stunad’ f*ckin’ Persian or something, whatever the f*ck. Decent score, you know.”

 

“Oh,” Mori pulls the ice out into palm, holds it up to light, “Jafari?”

 

Guessing game. Roy checks Age for affirmation, he nods. “Yeah.”

 

“Yeah, figured. Place’s a shvindl anyway, no big loss, insurance’ll come through.” Pause. “His son’s a c*nt- you, you meet his son?”

 

Heads shake.

 

“Ah. Well- gimme a second here.”

 

Loupe. Desk. More waiting - proper exam, everyone stretching and rubbing necks and swallowing loud enough you can hear it. Footsteps pitter-patter upstairs.

 

“These is scuffed, huh, Roy?”

 

“Are they?”

 

“Eh. Certainly no virgin gems, who knows where Jafari got his hands on ‘em. Can’t trust no jewelers like that- ‘less you’re dealing with your big names you don’t go to the storefront with the gold-bezeled doorways. Trust me on that.” Clears his throat. “Don’t worry though, I’ll still fetch you boys a pretty penny.”

 

Just like that. Jewels go into jewel bag, jewel bag into drawer - beside pencils and sharpeners and snowglobes and notebooks. But they’ll see a profit eventually.

 

Eric doesn’t like eventually. “Hope you got a quick turnaround on these things, pal.”

 

Mori gapes Roy for something, back at Eric. “Well, well- usually I’d say, uh, gimme two weeks. Three at the most. Like I said they’re scuffed, not beyond repair or nothing, but, you know. Scuffed. I’ll work my magic, kid. No zorgers at Mori’s, huh?”

 

“What?”

 

“Don’t worry. We done here, Roy? My wife’s having a little get-together upstairs, wants me to show my face, you know?”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, we’ll get out of your hair. You still got my number?”

 

“I do.”

 

They shake and a lightbulb goes off. “Oh- sh*t, hey, Mori, hold.” Roy clasps the Crowex off his wrist, slaps it down on Mori’s palm. “Think you can take this off my hands?”

 

Mori puts it on, weighs it around. “You got the box and papers?”

 

Just looks at him.
 

“Alright. Still- I only seen one of these in person, this poor schmuck from Dukes on his fourth divorce. It’s a Crowex alright, self-winding, sweeping hands, date aperture. Real snazzy. I got the thirty-day hold on these now, least officially, but I’d get you at least eight Gs for it. Least.”

 

“No sh*t?”

 

A nod, he unclasps it. “I can take it off your hands now. Won’t have to wait no weeks for a turnaround on this.”

 

Thoughts bubble. Roy considers, answers by taking it back and wrapping it right back on. “I dunno, Mor', wrist feels a bit light without. I’ll be back.”

 

Jon’s already shadowing the doorway. This close. Roy clicks his tongue and points two handed; that’s the goodbye cue.

 

“Hey, give my regards to Gabriel, alright? Haven’t seen the guy in a while now, starting to think that liquidation center’s gone to his head, huh? Some kind of macher now, I dunno.”

 

“Ain’t seen him in weeks neither,” Roy on his way out, “but uh, I see him I’ll let him know you’re longin’ for the guy.”

 

“Sure. See you, boys.”

 

Daylight. Sun’s caress kisses you warm, kisses you deep out of basement depth, away from broken glass and blood and jewelery. Parked cars galore and a Trashmaster putting along with a rhythmic shift as it picks up sh*t.

 

Adrian’s on fidgety feet, ready to leave business behind. “So that’s that, huh?”

 

“That’s that. Mori’s a good guy, y’know. Just gotta give him some time.”

 

Eric, “Better sooner than later. Don’t trust nobody holding onto jewelry, Roy.”

 

“You can trust him. We can trust the guy, I got no question. C’mon.”

 

“Where we headed, Age?”

 

C’mon. It’s just as much an invite as filler - your business is done but you’re already grouped up, Jon’s Accomplice still waiting curbside for transport to anywhere and everywhere - mid-afternoon bars are inviting as ever, quick bite, f*ckin’ stroll on the pier - it’s up to you, wop posse and unlimited possibility. 

 

Or maybe you’ve had your fix of their friendly faces for the day. Age’ll break off with niceties, you’re on your own down the boulevard as the guys chuff off in the SUV, high-end stores in arms reach even if the prices ain’t. But you can browse.

 

You’re free.

 

+ $1,800

SPORTS: TROUBLED SF LINEBACKER CONFUSES SLURS

By Barry Cherry

Star linebacker for the San Fierro 69ers, Cecil Zubrzycki, yet again courted controversy at the conclusion of a recent game against the Liberty City Wrath by accidentally calling defensive back Adel Tolbert a ‘little f*cking honkey’.

 

The game, a 31 - 14 rout in the 69ers favor with the Wrath playing to a dejected crowd in their home stadium, ended in bewilderment as Zubrzycki attempted to start a fight with Tolbert but ‘used the wrong insult’ as Tolbert recounted in a daze in a post game interview. “I don’t- I think he was tryna’ call me the n-word, but just… was it the mood? I don’t know.” Tolbert wandered off in the middle of further questions with his head in his hands.

 

An emergency press conference hosted after the game by the linebacker ended in pandemonium as an increasingly anxious Zubrzycki further apologized and justified himself. “In the future,” he said, “I will call the man a coon. But a honkey, that’s- I get my- look, you- I get- I don’t mince my words, I f*cked up, but- you, look- I- mincin’ is, I- you callin’ me a queer?” Zubrzycki was further defensive to reporters stating that: “I am great at the sports [sic] and with my hands, that I love. I don’t mince words, I don't- I just- just don't do none of that faggy sh*t."

 

The conference concluded with the player tearing off his shirt and screaming before running into traffic; a move that his agent described as “not influenced by steroids or chemicals or nothing, just white pride.” He did not respond to further comment.

[slimeball supreme]

 

The Garden is empty when you arrive again. Look left, look right, one of the staff - girl barely in her twenties, is fixing up and scrubbing down and adjusting cloth on the table. Felix approaches, airs out his jacket, asks quiet “My- er… I have meeting.”

 

She's bored. “Yes?”

 

“Do you know Mr. Roitman?”

 

Still bored. “Which?”

 

Cut - banging behind metal door. Kitchen door with a little glass submarine window all steamed up, door pushes open and the banging gets louder and it's shouting.

 

“БЛЯДЬ! БЛЯДЬ! БЛЯДЬ! СУКА БЛЯДЬ!”

F*CK! F*CK! F*CK! F*CKING BITCH!

 

Camera cranes closer, Gennady is just tossing pans and kicking and thrashing, tantrum time, lunatic screaming at nothing and nowhere. “Gena?”

 

“YOU SHUT THE F*CK UP, C*NT.”

 

Felix stares. Gennady stops. Blinks. Reflexively slicks back hair that isn't there, drops his hands to his hips and eyes to the floor. Mess. There's stains all over and you can't place exactly where they're from. There's stainless steel in a million places. You look a second longer and Gennady’s shirt is drenched, top buttons undone.

 

Felix keeps staring. “How long has it been?”

 

“I don't need this.”

 

“Where are the cooks?”

 

“I cook- you want to know what I been cooking? I cook little deal, I get Kuzma, we talk about this and that and- we get Remo, he talks to these boys in Colombia.”

 

“I know.”

 

“I don't need this.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Gennady sighs. “German.”

 

German side-steps from behind the door with his hands clasped behind his back.

 

Felix cracks up.

 

It's a good few seconds of just laughing when Gennady lets out a weak “Заткнись,” gets harder when the laughing don't stop. “Shut up, Felix.”

 

German gets dangerously close to saying a word.

 

“How the f*ck long you behind the door, German?”

 

“He's not behind the door.”

 

Felix wipes eye, “He's just standing there and door open and he doesn't f*cking move?” Turns back to German, “Buddy, why don't you move?”

 

“Felix--”

 

“No- no, really,” he spits between new spurts of laughter, “is like f*cking TV show or something. Is very good comedy timing, German, man, maybe you are in the wrong line of work. What, you don’t want to see me?”

 

German almost blushes - he’s usually red anyway but now he’s either flustered or just wants to crush your throat. And he could.

 

Gena doesn’t want that, roars “Enough!”

 

Reverberates. Felix hardens and plays it off with a handwave, “Ah, you no fun.”

 

“I no fun.” Gennady starts to walk, his brother and Felix shadow before he suddenly stops short and turns around, wags a finger right into the latter’s face. “No, Felix, I know fun. Do not be saying this. This no time for fun.”

 

“Sure. So sorry, next time I will read room.”

 

Girl from earlier just finishes patting down red tablecloth, places one of those battery table lamps and goes - she ignores the little grouping and goes onto the next as Gennady sits. Says “Sit”.

 

Felix sits. German sits.

 

“You want drink?”

 

“I thought this was serious.”

 

“It is. And the bar is closed.”

 

“Very cute. Комик. You know if you two was тройни- uh, how you say, triplets, we would have real team. Three Stooges or some sh*t.”

 

Gets a pause. “They were not triplets.”

 

“Ah, whatever.” Felix looks over shoulder, back where they came. “Who gonna clean up kitchen?”

 

“Listen to me, Felix,” Gennady leans in, interlocks fingers. “You listen now. The sh*t is not good. And now you gonna stop f*cking me around.”

 

“The sh*t?”

 

“The sh*t. Whatever you want to call the sh*t- the sh*t where you kill small army of Motya Shvedik’s own f*cking militsiya at garage in Goatherd, where I try to put thing in arrangement with Remo and he tells me about ‘we making international waves’ because of f*cking musor f*cking Motya Shvedik. That sh*t.”

 

“Oh, that sh*t.” Felix feigns indifference. “Yes. Why you keep calling him musor? You been calling him musor plenty, too much. I can think of more creative insult.”

 

Blows a f*cking gasket. “Because he is f*cking musor! Selfish f*cking rat! Everybody know this, he speak to some ment about gun ring through whole f*cking Europe - Leningrad to f*cking Budapest he f*cks over to save his own ass. Thing falls like f*cking house of cars. But you think Rabinovich care none?”

 

“I don’t know what Rabinovich care.”

 

“None. Motya sit pretty right here in Hove, he hears people saying this all the way back in Moscow. Is rumor, what you do? You let it die. People know you good enough, it dies a death. Especially if it one man. Maybe if you have business there, yes, you go home, you teach lesson.” Gennady’s incensed, veins pulsating above eyebrow worming hot onto scalp. “But what Motya do? What Motya do- he hears this, he take first plane back home, first axe he sees. Finds him. Chops his f*cking arm right off shoulder, hacks and bleeds him into the gutter.”

 

Cute story.

 

Felix lets it simmer. “Yes.” Nods, “and this is man whose kids you try to blow up?”

 

“We not having that conversation again. We having new conversation.” Gennady kind of glares at German for some affirmation, gets it through an utterly blank face. Some kind of twin telepathy at play.

 

Arm sprung around the chair’s back, Felix eyes the Garden’s prize statue in the center.

 

Gennady speaks, “You are going to kill him.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“You are going to kill him.”

 

“Who?”

 

“Who? Долбоёб- Motya goddamn Shvedik.”

F*cking idiot.

 

“Oh yeah?” He’s laughing again. “Just like this?”

 

“Just like this.” Eyes German yet again, you get the idea he’s playing some kind of interlocutor. Maybe they’re just f*cking weird. “You want dragon dead? You cut the head off.”

 

Enough games. “Is snake. You cut head off goddamn snake. And the point here, you correct me if I am speaking sh*t, Gennady- the point here is that Motya Shvedik ain’t no f*cking head. Or- or he is head, but just one of f*cking Hydra.”

 

“Of what?”

 

“Hydra, I don’t know, f*cking beast with thousand heads.”

 

“No.” Nonplussed. “You cut head and the body dies. And I ain’t gonna worry about no f*cking car exploding around me every time I turn ignition key. German either. It goes far enough, Felix, and I will not be a fool. You are going to kill him. Today.”

 

He’s staring at that f*cking statue again.

 

Looks Gennady in the eyes. Then German.

 

“Sure.”

 

“Very good, you are smart like whiz. So- you going to go to his home. You not going to do it there, not just because of f*cking kids or whatever, but because I know he has men watching it and I do not want your brains on sidewalk. You follow him- he loves little bar on Z Street, thinks nobody knows this.”

 

“But you know this.”

 

“I do. I also know he drives ugly green Benefactor, can’t miss it, dirty color garbage sea-foam green bullsh*t. He going to go and get drunk, you going to go and get bomb.”

 

“What, bullets don’t get job done?”

 

“It send a message.”

 

“Yes, so I blow parking garage sky-high. That it?”
 

“If all goes as it should, yes. You are going to pick up bomb from Marat, I think you know him, lives on 7th Street, big red house, works in cellar. He knows you coming.”

 

“Anything else I can do for you?”

 

“This not just for me. It also for Kuzma, for Hove Beach, for you. No more militsiya coming for your little head, huh? It good for everyone, everybody. We gonna celebrate right here after it done. You gonna come.”

 

“We’ll see.”

 

“We’ll see.” He’s made his point and now he’s echoing - looks at German, they share a chuckle. “Go. Get out of here. Ни пýха ни перá.”

Break a leg.

 

Felix don’t answer.

 

So - you’re Marat bound. Table girl’s made it all the way to the other end of the resto, bathrooms-adjacent, still turning and tucking tablecloth. She offers up a maybe-sheepish smile as you walk past, Felix nods back and keeps nodding and keeps nodding.

 

It’s late afternoon - back into the daylight it seems like every building’s glossed over with this sheen, little windows between brickwork reflecting right into eyes, that last deep blue gasp before sunset. Your Gogetter’s curbside. You could take a taxi- you could even walk, big red house on 7th barely a jaunt from Wappinger, but you might as well just get behind the wheel, squeeze your way out ‘tween a funky-colored Barbican Payola and Annis Lamia way too close. Bumper meets bumper, Felix quips. Whatever-- you’re the one in the SUV, right?

 

It’s a hard right just before the overhead tracks start, radio’s tuned to JNR, Mingus and John Handy going ham on gospel sax - you pass car service, accounting offices, people flurrying about Mohawk Market on the corner. Marat’s house is a real Hove thing, bright red wide-grain siding on a two-story sandwiched between redbrick apartment blocks. Park up in the narrow drive ahead a Regina - opt to leave the truck idling rather than killing the engine by tapping the contextual button.

 

Lawn’s dead grass, strewn with chairs, cans, a workbench clearly unused. Felix goes “Свинарник.” The man likes organized disorder. This is not that.

 

Entrance by the side, down a little flight. Steel door. Knock-knock.

 

Immediate: “Da?”

 

“Eh, Marat, is you? It Felix Godovsky, I come for Roitman boys.”

 

“Roitman?”

 

“Roitman. Gennady, German. They say you expecting me.”

 

Pause.

 

Long.

 

“Roitman?”

 

Felix’s forehead meets the door.

 

“Oh, Roitman! Da, da, разумеется! Felix, come, come!”

 

A few latches click, crunch, a chain unhooks. Door opens wide.

 

Striking face: old face, hooked nose and wide-rimmed glasses, this checkered button-up only half done-up and revealing fluffs of white hair. This is Marat: one-time Soviet gunsmith, inventor trained in pneumatics, recluse grateful as ever his name never made it into a single history book before he jumped on a plane courtesy of Jackson-Vanik.

 

You’re in with him, this little cellar with wood beam ceiling way too low, cobwebs and concrete. “Felix, Felix, long time, eh?” Acts like he wants to play pleasantries, doesn’t. “Roitman. I don’t think of surname, sorry, sorry. It was, uh, bomb, yeah?”

 

“So I hear.”

 

“Yes, it was bomb.”

 

He scurries away like a mouse, some corner past shelving covered with spare parts and paint cans and bug spray. Light bulb on a chain sways as he walks past. He’s misplaced his bomb.

 

The man is very old.

 

Felix leans up on a workbench. “Your car outside, Marat - it nice. I always say, wood panels on American cars very ergonomical. Make me sad the people don’t seem to like it no more.”

 

He’s preoccupied, “What is ergonomical mean?”

 

“Don’t know, I saw it in magazine. Is true though, huh? They don’t make ‘em like that no more. Real big, real family car. Very American. They call it woodie. Is good name, right?”

 

“I don’t know, Felix. I bought this car when I came to the country in ‘77, it was already old then. I am not picky and I don’t know what is ergonomical. It do the job.”

 

Beat. Glum: “Sure.”

 

Returns into the light, now carrying something rectangular covered in cloth - Marat places it on the workbench. “For you.”

 

Felix just looks at it. 

 

Marat just looks at him.

 

Breaks the silence with an “Okay,” pulls the cloth off and tosses it aside. 

 

Definitely looks like a bomb. 

 

He goes on, “So - is for Roitmans, yeah? I get a call few days ago, I not heard from them for a while, mind you, but I pick up anyways. German, he give me the runaround, you know what they li--”

 

“German? German don’t make phone call, Marat, German don’t talk. I not so sure thought goes on behind little eyes of his at all.”

 

Shrugs. “No, I am sure it was German. But it don’t matter. He say to me, he go, ‘Marat, Marat, you make me this bomb, but it has to be, you know, идиото-непроницаем. We take no risks. Must be foolproof, it can absolutely not go wrong.’”

 

Smiles mask a little indignation. “I think better translation is idiot-proof, Marat. Thanks for this.”

 

“Ah, you know what they like. I think you probably capable, but- you know, they want, so I make it foolproof, idiot-proof, what you say. So is easy for you - bomb is ammonium nitrate, fuel oil, jelly booster. I fix it with tilt cap also, very simple: you stick it real good onto muffler, by the time car pulls onto main road the heat from exhaust activates it. You do this wrong- I don’t say you will, but if, mercury in tilt cap makes sure it blows to a smithereen anyway the first time he hits pothole on Iroquois. You barely got to worry.”

 

He’s satisfied with himself - been doing this for half a century, sure, but it doesn’t wane.

 

“Thank you, Marat, I always happy to hear I don’t got to think too much.” Felix picks the thing up like a pizza box. “They tell you who this for?”

 

“No. Не мое дело - this how I work.”

And it’s none of my business.

 

“К лучшему. ”

Maybe that’s for the best.

 

“But,” a scraggly finger wags, “I read Liberty Tree. Give it an extra pat for Mr. Shvedik for me, yeah?”

 

Old man knows the score. Felix lets it go. “Hey, while I’m here, you still got those, eh, чертежи? You know, your old schemas, schematics, whatever- for gun, things you slip in boot and don’t need no silencer, this thing.”

 

Happy you asked, memories of years gone by, “I always have these. It’s just- to be honest- you know what I do, Felix. The men come to me, they ask for this, they ask for that. And I do. But lately is no market for inventions make for covert affair. We in ammonium nitrate and Krokodýl culture right now, мальчик мой.”

 

“But if?”

 

Echoes. “But if.” 

 

There are some papers strewn willy-nilly on a second shelf above the workbench, stained, crumpled - you see Cyrillic and coffee rings. Marat peruses real quick, picks a couple out and places them all gentle-like right on top of the bomb.

 

“You want, you get - but you find parts, huh? Take a look- you can still read the language, yes?”

 

Gets a look.

 

“All I ask. I like to keep busy since Katulka passed, you know.”

 

“Yeah, I’m sorry, Marat. I’ll be by again soon though, huh?”

 

Old man was all smiles, bashful almost - it freezes over as you’re on your way out. “Hey- before you go. You uh, forgetting something?”

 

“I came here with no bomb and now I have bomb. I don’t think so.”

 

They stare, one-two-three seconds too long.

 

“Do not tell me they not f*cking paid you.”

 

Shrug.

Okay.

 

No choice - Felix digs through pockets for wallet, slaps a fifty down on the table. “Чертов скряга. Tell me this enough.”

F*cking cheapskates. 

 

He doesn’t. “One more.”

 

A hundred down. Get the bomb and f*ck off, a happy Marat folding the bills behind as you head back out. 

 

Go to Motya’s house.

 

Explosives on the seat beside, hop back into the SUV and get going. You’re Hansen Basin-bound, easy access via the on-ramp to the Baldric Parkway off Cruspen, highway carrying you through Goatherd and a not-so-scenic drive running parallel with the inlet, unkempt grass and community service litter-pickers in the median. What a life.

 

Once you’re through the cloverleaf interchange ‘side the Byrd Aerodrome you’re smooth sailing through suburban hell - that’s mansions drawn sans-architect on one side, beer tastes and champagne pocket homes; Hansen Basin’s homes half stucco shells imported from down Vice and plopped down on swamplands, half wannabe colonial redbricks. Not an ounce of class.

 

But Motya’s is no wannabe.  

 

The place is on the innermost rung of whatever urban planner thought Hansen would be best suited to a bunch of semicircular streets spreading outward. 101 Shuttlecock, big glyphs say, real colonial, the red-brick-white-column deal, sloped garage around the corner.

 

Sloped garage has sloped driveway with a sea-foam Benefactor in it.

 

It’s running. Either you’ve made good time or you’re pushing it far too close - you’re in that limbo where the sun’s gone down but it’s not quite dark and cars new enough for auto headlights have them on: yours being anything but new you look nice and inconspicuous in your bright red SUV parked across Shuttlecock and you only look suspicious when little old ladies in their dusk jogging groups saunter by and Felix practically puts himself on the floorboard.

 

Benefactor lights stare down a baroque garage door - opens, some big meaty prick hobbles out with a toothpick in his mouth, a big gun arm grabs and tosses it aside before climbing in the passenger and shaking the poor car on its suspension. 

 

Is Motya in there? Well- his house, his car, damn well better be. You’re right in the money, he’s practically within arm’s reach, soldiers right in the muck of a dirty war. 

 

Car backs out of the drive, meaty man gets out and closes the gate and gets back in. Car guns it down the main drag.

 

One, two, three - enough for a drag behind, kick it into gear yourself. The tail job’s nothing new but it’s revamped - obey traffic laws ‘else you’ll garner more suspicion than you’ll gain by being too scared to lag behind an extra few seconds. Target car crosses right through Thalassus Meadow, doesn’t take long to come to the conclusion that he’s being a dick - tensions running high, sure, but he’s either doing his best to lose a hypothetical tail and doing a sh*t job of it or he might as well be driving an Uber - gunning it through yellow lights at the eleventh hour and cutting through traffic on Royal Highway like there’s not a cop in Broker. And maybe there ain’t- least not one that’ll pull him over.

 

He cuts through avenues and thoroughfares and it gets darker and darker and the store shutters come down and lights turn on and the rhythm of the pursuit gets a stronger pulse - and you better temper it because the second he feels his suspicions are anything but that you bet your life he ain’t going where he’s going.

 

“What the f*ck you doing, Felix?” Felix asks Felix.

 

Nobody answers. 

 

Radio’s running ads and ads- jingles and bullsh*t and you could just as well kill it and keep focus, Gogetter engine serving the score.

 

He slows. Felix on alert.

 

Cutscene grabs the screen - view from the top of a building as the car pulls into a parking lot illuminated by streetlights under purple sky, circles once before finding a single spot in a sea of cars. God knows where their owners are - it’s full up but the place is deserted, whole area: spotted restos gobbling up the populace, not a soul.

 

Perfect storm.

 

The driver climbs out - oversized brown leather jacket gleams and he looks around and looks around again as his little muscle man does the same. Turns his head and it’s a head full of thin hair but a lot of it, face of tough brows and scarred lip and these squinting eyes that don’t stop moving and thinking.

 

Motya f*cking Shvedik f*cking musor.

 

Motya f*cking Shvedik f*cking musor takes a few steps, starts crossing the lot with muscles in shadow, quick pace and he checks his watch and looks back and forth and speaks gruff and direct, “Вы голодны?”

You hungry?

 

Gruffer voice, less direct. “Вы получили ту доставку кориандра, которая должна была прийти вчера? Я жажду харчо.”

Did the truck come by with the coriander delivery yesterday? I’m jonesing for some kharcho.

 

 “Я делаю светскую беседу. Следите за гребаной дорогой.”

I’m making small talk. Keep your eyes on the f*cking road.

 

Felix can’t hear. But Felix sees and Felix watches as the duo make their way across the lot and across the street divorced from the traffic on the avenue just up the road, start walking parallel these shuttered storefronts until they reach some pink painted stucco place right on the corner and don’t waste any time shuffling inside into warmth. Place’s got no windows. Walled off.

 

Alone.

 

“Боже помоги мне.”

God help me.

 

Car’s there in a sea of cars. Bomb’s still on the seat.

 

Go.

Rig the car.

You’re in control of Felix in a half-crouched motion as he leaves the SUV streetside with explosive held tight against his leg, complete silence other than the wind whirring and traffic down the next cross street might as well be a world away. 

 

Not a f*cking soul.

 

Benefactor’s clicking and whirring down as the engine cools. Sea foam looks black in the night.

 

Felix takes one more look down both directions, stares hard at the pink building, waiting for something, for life. 

 

Not a f*cking soul.

 

Crouch with the left thumbstick, takes Felix half a second to realize this ain’t working - Benefactor diesel engine f*cking exhaust is high mounted, deeper into the undercarriage than it should, muffler inaccessible. Great.

 

So he crawls underneath, further, until he can’t move no more and the legs are still sticking out. 

 

So you’re transformed to first person, undercarriage piping and slick parts half an inch above your vision.

 

So now you can install the bomb, slick it with the directional controls, pad it tight. It’s not that easy. “Идиото-непроницаем, ah?”

 

And then you hear footsteps. 

And they come closer.

 

And is it ever claustrophobic under there, and you can’t escape, can’t move or manipulate the camera or do anything but stare straight up at pump assemblies and fuel filters as the loafers hitting asphalt come closer and you know they’re not just some schmoe on his way back from a first date.

 

Motya’s back. Motya walks. Just as he makes to the driver’s door and you hear the door click and swing open you realize this might be your only opportunity to get out alive - pop-up orders through the urgency, use the thumbstick to wiggle Felix as quickly and quietly as possible back out where he came, jeans dragging through black and loose rocks on asphalt, whatever the f*ck Motya’s doing in the car can’t last forever-

 

And it doesn’t.

 

Felix - about three quarters out from underneath.

 

Motya - about three quarters on the way to the trunk.

 

“Ебать мой хуй?!”

What the f*ck?!

 

That’s right.

 

Instincts kick in, literally - a critical melee press and Felix uses his momentum to send boot flat right into Motya’s shin, one or both of them start yelling and making animal sounds and flailing, Motya’s on one knee scrambling for the gun in his waistband and Felix claws his way out from under the goddamn stupid f*cking Benefactor f*cking Glendale, charges him while he’s still in a scurry and goes for this awkward choke but overcompensates and they both hit asphalt real hard while still yelling and maybe laughing, f*ck knows: “Иди сюда, сука, я тебе зубами сердце вырву!”

Come on, fa**ot, come on, I’ll eat your f*cking heart!

 

Shvedik keeps on making noises, his knee or his shin or his whole leg is f*cked but now he’s got his hand on this goddamn giant Redback revolver, nickel finish gleaming in the street lamp above as he stands and Felix stands and they’re a couple feet apart-

 

“Тупой мудоеб!”

Stupid motherf*cker!

 

He pulls the trigger.

 

And Motya’s little baby, his little nickel plated custom ammo motherf*cker - it misfires.

 

So he throws it at Felix’s head.

 

It connects above the eyes, Felix yells again, rapidfire fury, “Shvedik! Ты, грёбаный кобель!”, and now with your input he’s finally got his hand on his own Chitarra, surprise f*ckhead, but blood’s leaking into his vision and the camera’s red blurred and Motya’s about to claw your goddamn eyes out so you mash the trigger - bang bang bang bang bang blindfire, someone screams down the ave and Felix can’t f*cking see, stops shooting but keeps aiming, and you don’t know what hit until Motya suddenly stops charging and he’s got a hand on his shoulder and red oozing between fingers. 

 

Taking it like a champ - stalemate. “The f*ck are you, Jack Howitzer?”

“You are dead, you rotten f*cking mutt, I kill you now or I kill you in a month but I gonna burn you and your whole goddamn family to nothing, you and f*cking Roitman f*cking piece of sh*ts!”

 

“Why you couldn’t just stay in the bar, prick?!”

 

“You the one try to kill my f*cking kids, too?”

 

Felix is doubled over, absurd standoff comes to a close when something clicks and Motya turns tail to the pink palace and starts yelling for Pushkas and Igors and assorted sacrilege, and debilitated Felix gives chase because what else is he going to do, he can’t barely f*cking see, and you’re in control up to and under the awning that leads inside.

 

It’s an ersatz Gulag Garden, pinks and peaches and scary Russians of a different fealty. Motya probably wants to feast on your throat but he’s no dummy - as you enter he’s already headed out back exit with the kharcho-craving giant. F*ck.

 

Two goons and a bartender, some kid who totally freezes up: first goon was waiting by the entrance, knocks Felix’s gun straight out of hand the moment he walks in, gut punches and pins your arms while you’re doubled over. Numero dva waltzes up to make an example and overlooks how easy it is for you to send a foot into his balls, crush the first moron’s nose by sending Felix’s head backward - if you’re quick you can finish him right here, grabbing his head while he’s tending to the nose, smashing it once-twice-thrice into the brick f*cking wall and leaving him be once he’s bleeding out the ear and goes limp.

 

You got a moment enough to reach for your gun on the linoleum, dive for it and dome Mr Balls, have his skull go ragdoll on the nearest table on the way down - or you can play to some dumb code of honor and just break his f*cking jaw before he recovers and you have to rough it out.

 

Line up your sights with the bartender for good measure: kid winces, covers his eyes with forearm. He’s got nothing.

 

Get the f*ck out of here.

 

Chaos assembles outside, busy ave now right in your face and a wary hoi polloi keeping their distance as you wander out bloody and bruised with a gun in hand. Holster it with your last shred of dignity and f*cking run to your car.

 

See on the way - Glendale’s abandoned, some old Bravado was parked next to it suddenly gonzo.

 

You do the math.

 

“Oh my god.”

 

Take off before those discordant sirens become one unified wail saying f*ck up.

 

-$100

[Cebra]

 

There's a house, and you're lucky for this one, in Lennox, where the boys hang. It's actually Bobbie Cooze’s place - a big two-story in Verward Hill a quick commute from Adrian’s spot. You're due in the evening, maybe late; so the Vulcar is all yours and the house a quick hop-skip-and-jump southbound.

 

Verward is guidoville - mostly refugees from Broker who came down when the bridge got built and a change of scenery was sought. District also consistently votes Republican so, you know. Figure it out yourself. Dinky pizzerias and musty bars and the like; biggest neighborhood hotspot is trance club The Substratum taking cues from the Ocean Beach scene where the coke is cut with sugar and the tips are frosted clean.

 

The boys like to frequent. Bobbie loves that sh*t.

 

Bobbie’s is up on McKnight Street and don’t look too distinct - Cusumano painted on the letterbox and this imprint in the lawn for when they’d thrown a loveseat out the window and took a month to move it. Dying grass on the fringes and a long walkway up to the door.

 

Adrian walks the long walkway. Adrian knocks.

 

Toby answers.

 

“Madon’, Adriano!” Goes in for the hug.

 

“Just Adrian.”

 

Toby ignores that, “Long time, man, long f*ckin’ time.”

 

You saw the guy a week ago but don’t bother correcting. “Sure.”

 

“Eh, the fellas, eh, they’re- uh, they’re- hold on. Follow me, man.” Beckons you into Casa Cusumano with el generico oak staircase and chemical-runoff grey carpet and waddles off into the living room up ahead.

 

Adrian sighs, shrugs, follows.

 

“You stupid pricks! My beautiful house… look what you’ve done to it!”

 

Roy is grinning like a f*cking madman.

 

You’re stepping into the den where the heat gets hotter even though it’s fall and you can see mist outside. That kind of warm, salt-and-vinegar heat that burns your eyes through shut lids and turns black leather couches (of which Bobbie has three) sticky. It’s cool. Homely. On couches: Roy’s probably seen the movie ten times at this point but he’s still on the edge. Whole gang has bated breath digging into a bag of Phat and a plastic yellow mixing bowl they’re keeping the popcorn in and lukewarm Loggers to habitually sip. Vicegrip’s on the TV, baby, and it usually is. They only got three or four VHS tapes.

 

Eric is asleep.

 

“This is for my brother!”

 

Fat little Colombian on the TV pouts, sweats, drips blood on the velvet. “I trusted you, Tommy… I woulda had you made!”

 

Bobbie: “He’s Colombian, he’s makin’ people?”

 

Roy: “Shut the f*ck up.”

 

Gun cocks. “Say goodnight, Mr. Diaz.”

 

Bang. Cut to black.

 

On the TV, anyway. 

 

Roy going “Boom!”

 

Snort, “He means it metaphorical. You know?”

 

Bobbie, “No, Jon.”

 

“They don’t actually get made or f*ckin’ nothin’, like in a ceremony. Just, you know. You’re made. You made it. You know?”

 

Beat. “No,” Bobbie goes.

 

Roy just gets up, “Age,” he says.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Good sh*t, right?”

 

“What? The movie?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I mean,” Age turns neck to see Reynold Zito come out from the kitchen with another beer. “Yeah. Sure.”

 

“Fun.”

 

“I mean, yeah. I mean, it’s overwritten, but you know--”

 

“Huh?”

 

“It’s good. Doesn’t matter, forget it, it’s good.”

 

Reynold poking Eric in the forehead in the background, getting the guy up all red-eyed and slapping at his hands. “It’s f*ckin’ real life. You know?”

 

Squint. “Not really, Roy.”

 

“That’s the f*ck how I’m gonna do it,” trails off, starts walking to the kitchen, “I’ll be there. We’re gonna f*ckin’ be there.”

 

“Hey, you wanna get shot ‘n the back by a moolie, fall down the stairs, eat sh*t - your f*ckin’ business.”

 

“Not that part.”

 

“That’s kinda the whole point.”

 

Just waves hand, “Y- you don’t f*ckin’ get it.”

 

Age grabs a beer, “What’m I gettin’?”

 

“What, this too good for you now?”

 

Reynold, “Any more f*ckin’ popcorn?”

 

Roy, “I dunno.”

 

Age sips. “Rennie’s still good.”

 

“Don’t talk sh*t.”

 

Reynold, “You talkin’ sh*t, Age?”

 

Age just ignores. Eyes back on Roy, “Cooze. Toby.”

 

“What?”

 

“We keep company. S’all I’m sayin’.”

 

“Again. You too f*ckin’ good?”

 

“Rupert the Fink and Toby Steroids. I dunno, maybe.”

 

“Cooze can scrap.”

 

“I’m just sayin’. Rennie’s, f*ckin’, what, 25?”

 

“Well, y’know, what the doctor says, it’s--”

 

“Forget it.”

 

Sip, silence, hawaiian shirt parading around with cowboy Texas talking real estate. Can barely hear what they’re saying from here. “I’m just-” Roy juts, puts bottle back on kitchen island, “-tryna’... what the f*ck are you saying?”

 

“We go to Bobbie’s place and watch Vicegrip on the f*ckin’ TV and drink and talk movies. Or, what, courtroom bullsh*t newspaper sh*t. I dunno. No action recently.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“What?”

 

“No action?”

 

“Sure. What?”

 

“Butch ain’t no action?”

 

“Butch is Butch. I dunno. You gotta make bread on your lonesome.”

 

“You don’t know the half, man. You don’t know the f*ckin’ half.”

 

“Sure.”

 

“Jon!”

 

Jon perks off couch, gets popcorn crumbs on the floor, “What?”

 

“C’mon. You too, Age. Eric-...”

 

Eric’s sleeping again.

 

“Okay. Yeah. Just the boys, yeah. C’mon.”

 

“What, you goin’?”

 

“Yeah, Rennie. Just gettin’ smokes, we’ll be back, don’t worry.”

 

Zip, trio’s out the door onto the big long lawn and Roy’s pulled the keys. Beep beep, slick looking black Karin Intruder on the driveway lights up and Zito invites - drive or don’t.

 

The place is up Schuyler.

 

Jon sniffs, snorts, starts; “Where we goin’?”

 

“Age don’t think I’m doin’ nothin’.”

 

“No smokes?”

 

“We can get smokes. But this ain’t why.”

 

“Then what the f*ck?”

 

Roy starts the engine and gets his mind going for a speech, “Well,” clears throat like he’s rehearsed this, “these moolies got a spot a friend a’ mine told me about. Stash place a’ sum’n.”

 

Age, “Yeah, sure.”

 

“Sure’s sure. It’s H, or base, or both, or f*ckin’ buffalo wings. Who knows.”

 

Jon, “I don’t think they’re stashin’ wings.”

 

“Oh, you wanna f*ckin’ bet?”

 

“Whatever,” Age says. “Why this? We stickin’ this place up?”

 

“I got the masks. If we even f*ckin’ need ‘em. They callin’ the cops goin’ ‘they stole our dope!’ Easy. We get the loot, get some cashbucks, call my friend, we split the take.”

 

“Who’s this friend?”

 

“Ah. See, Jon. He’s askin’ now. You think I ain’t do nothin’, I sit on my ass with Bobbie the Fink and Toby and my assmunch retard brother and we watch movies. Yeah, man. Now what?”

 

Jon, “Bobby the who?”

 

“The Fink.”

 

“Where’d that come from?”

 

Age laughs, “He’s a jew.”

 

“No sh*t.”

 

“Yeah,” Roy says. “Used to be Finklestein. That was his name, or his dad’s name, you know, Rupert Finklestein. Y’know, when he was livin’ up District Park he was still eatin’ kosher ‘til his pa picked up sh*t and moved to… wherever the f*ck.”

 

“I think he’s in prison.”

 

“Nah, Age, I think he’s in Florida or Louisiana or somethin’.”

 

“Whatever.”

 

“So he skips and heads south or to the can or wherever the f*ck and he switches to his mom’s name. You know, Cusumano. So we got Bobbie Cooze and Rupert the Fink.”

 

“Cooze for Cusumano.” Age laughs, “Didn’t he come up with that?”

 

“It’s original.”

 

“Every Cusumano calls themselves Cooze, Jon.”

 

“I ain’t met a lot a’ Cusumanos. So f*ck. I ain’t an expert.”

 

Adrian just switches, “Who’s the friend, though?”

 

“He ain’t Italian. But he’s good.”

 

“Bobbie ain’t Italian. Is he Bobbie-not-Italian?”

 

“Nah. He’s a wetback, but he’s good wetback. You’ll like him.”

 

Whatever the f*ck that means.

 

Schuyler - also not a long drive! Mostly black, mostly poor. Projectville and townhouses with broke windows. Jon locks the doors. A lot of guys on the street dressed up in clothes out the army surplus store; in Hinterlands and parkas and camos and chore coats and big f*ckin’ beanies grabbing crotch on the street corner and staring down the Intruder.

 

“Let’s park up the alley, get the sh*t toasty, you know how the f*ck.”

 

Do as he says or watch it happen - car slides up a parking lot a little ways from some Liberian grocers off Roye Street, onto a side where it’s house-after-house-after-house with wood boards on the windows and grass poking out the sidewalk.

 

Roy stops, holds up two fingers, points.

 

Cream paint two story halfway down the block. Third on the street.

 

“There.”

 

Age, “You scoped it, Zeets?”

 

“Friend did. These guys run with some dipsh*t crew from the Harriway Houses, you know, big boy clock chain motherf*ckers, tracksuits, what-the-f*ck. You don’t know what they got inside ‘til you know… but you know.”

 

Camera pans onto the front - guy outside sitting on the porch with a packet of chips. Lookout. 

 

“You wanna try the back?”

 

Roy nods.

 

All three get out. You’re on shotgun duty; Roy tosses a sawn-off and Age catches with both hands. Balaclavas on. Roy leads the charge, you take second place - you throw on a backpack from the back seat, hop one fence, hop another, hands on top the fence when you’re at the third down the block.

 

Points up. Look.

 

Single guy dressed in a red sweater and red flat cap at the back door checking his Hints for dirt, dust-dust-dusts.

 

Silently. Roy points - up here, or front door? Your call. Both options play out different, but for now, we’ll take the back.

 

Roy nods.

 

Roy jumps.

 

Follow.

 

Gotta stay quick on the jump and aim fast - block boy spits sh*t when he sees three white guys in ski masks hop over and nearly shouts until Roy puts a single finger up to the lips. Hush. Guy is petrified, eyes wide, but he hushes; puts his hands up and sticks to the wall like his life depends on it.

 

It does.

 

Jon sticks his hand in the guy’s waistband and pulls a revolver. “Slick.”

 

“Yeah, you stick yo’ hand in there--”

 

Roy puts his finger to the guy’s lips. “Shut the f*ck up.”

 

The guy bends the knee and shuts the f*ck up.

 

Roy whispers, “How many in there?” Nods his head to the door.

 

The guy sticks his hand up.

 

“Four?”

 

Guy nods.

 

Age breathes hard out the nose. “Of course.”

 

“We can handle five.”

 

Jon, “Nobody gonna get shot today, here’s hopin’.”

 

Everyone hopes. Roy sticks his hand down the back of block boy’s shirt and holds tight, pushes his semi-auto deep into the lower back. Peels him off the wall, pushes him to the door, “Screen door. What’s behind?”

 

Block boy grunts, “Kitchen.”

 

“Anything in the kitchen?”

 

“Hot wings.”

 

“What?”

 

“Hot wings in the kitchen.”

 

“Is there anybody in the f*cking kitchen, stupid?”

 

Block boy shakes his head.

 

That’s all Roy needs. 

 

He takes the lead, motions you and Jon to the side, and busts the door open. It’s unlocked. Thing flies off and slams the wall but it’s just a screen door, nothing too loud, metallic tish before pathetically closing back in. The kitchen is stripped bare. No fridge, no appliances: just a sink and some dusty shelves. Roy points and directs, waves his hand and gets you and Jon headed into the house. Guns up. Two doors shut, noise behind one, nothing behind the other.

 

Jon checks the nothing door. It’s a cupboard. Vacuum inside. Not exactly an alternative.

 

It’s your go on the door to the left - the noisy door.

 

Peek or don’t. Peeking means Age gets to crouching, cricks the door a smidge and looks into a dark room where the lights are shut off and a little TV illuminates with colors-colors-colors. Two guys with Kaihatsu controllers playing Uber Stu Master Racing and shouting, “Motherf*cker!”

 

Dreads, “Ah-ha.”

 

“What you doin’, son?” Sunglasses is saying. “Red shell? Come on, b, the f*ck you doing?”

 

“You play to win, nigga, you don’t play fair, you play to win.”

 

Shut the door.

 

Age back on Roy, “I go or you go?”

 

Bites his lip. “You open,” Roy goes. “I come in first, you fellas follow.”

 

Nod.

 

Brace.

 

Go.

 

Door swings.

 

Eyes dart.

 

Guys on the sofa go for waistbands but stop short on the get - they’d shoot their friend. They stop, Roy bursts in and half kicks over the Kaihatsu and mouths “shut the f*ck up” with the gun to block boy’s head. Age comes second with the shotgun aimed and motions to the floor, get down, squints and does it again, get down.

 

They drop their controllers. And slide off the couch.

 

Roy whispers, “Jonno.”

 

Jonno comes, Jonno collects - taps down and pulls pistols out the waistband and tosses them to the edge of the room and winces when he realizes what he just did, when the bang hits as the gun slams against the wall. “Sorry!”

 

Age turns his head to frown. Roy just blazes forward, “Where the f*ck is the sh*t?” It’s all whisperville and Roy isn’t sure if they heard, so he pushes the gun right up against the temple, so hard you can see block boy wince and the guys on the sofas cringe. “The f*cking juice.”

 

Dreads, “You buggin’ I tell you that sh*t, son.”

 

Roy blinks, thinks.

 

“Okay. Age.”

 

Your turn.

 

Think back to the poker robbery - pick a man. Roy obviously has his preference; he wants to see the testy motherf*cker bleed. So make him bleed. Walk up to him, press the contextual button, and whap him in the f*cking eye with your f*cking fist.

 

He yelps. Whap again, he ragdolls to the f*cking floor and blood is spitting out a cut under his eye. Roy puts up a finger to say shut the f*ck up once again, and Sunglasses yelps; “You niggas f*ckin’ wylin!”

 

Dreads: “Deadass f*ckin’... god…”

 

“Material. Where.”

 

Sunglasses panics and panics and breathes hard: “Upstairs. One the bedrooms one the somewhere, man, man, come on man, man--”

 

“Jon. Get the door. Age. Head up.”

 

Age nods.

 

Jon holds the pistol teacup-style and scurries to the front to get guard number two - your go. Upstairs is through the door and to a hallway with molting lead paint and chips scattering the wax wood; lights glisten from the banister up a carpeted flight. So walk up the flight, up the steps, up the steps careful - to three doors and an open bathroom.

 

Bathroom has a medicine cabinet that can be raided for a few extra bucks. Fun times.

 

The doors might deceive you - you might try all three, but that ain’t the smart move. The smart move is listening. Downstairs you hear Jonnie shout, hit a motherf*cker, hear the doorman mutter and scrape and hear him get thrown into the wall. But once that’s over, keep listening.

 

Door number three - the one to your right facing the front of the house - there’s music. 

 

‘Cause ‘92, I take a whole crew

Give ‘em a punch of the funk

Knock all of their gold tooth loose (POW!)

 

Get closer.

 

Door is slightly ajar.

 

Breach.

 

Stay smooth or don’t. Guy has these massive f*cking headphones on and his shottie leant halfway across the room. He hears you, sees you, and his hands dart right the f*ck up. An itchy trigger finger probably’ll leave the guy with a burst skull and blood pooling, but Age the operator can go easy.

 

Easy means walking up and smashing the gun right against the guy’s head. Out cold.

 

Find the drugs.

 

You have a room to investigate. Big ocean window that’s half boarded up, bed with sheets splayed and weird stains and a pristine poster taped to the wall; DB-P staring you down. More chipping paint.

 

Drawers? Empty.

 

Desk? Empty.

 

Under the bed? Nothing. Nothing in the closet.

 

Age is on the verge of giving up and sweating like a motherf*cker ‘til something in the corner’ catches his eye. Eyes shift to the gun. To some real shifty work on the walls and chipping round the edges.

 

Adrian crouches down. Scratches at the paint. Cracks. Keeps scratching until he sees the thing is loose around the corners and barely holding on.

 

So kick it the f*ck in.

 

Plaster snaps and breaks in and the stash is uncovered. There’s a lot of taped up bundles of something-something. You aren’t sure what but Adrian shakes and hears powder, feels powder, can’t help but grin. Leans the Lupara down against the bed and tries shovelling it out with both hands - ends up holding it like pizza boxes and chuckles to himself. Easily a couple grand’s worth of the good sh*t.

 

Adrian is about to shout when he hears something through the window.

 

“Hol’ on, hol’ on.”

 

“What you got on, son?”

 

“Where the f*ck’s Tariq, man?”

 

“Huh?”

 

Freeze up.

 

Adrian keeps under the window while he moves for the shottie, peeks out and holds onto the window sill. Four guys in the front yard. Four guys kitted the f*ck out and doing handsigns and--

 

“What I tell him? I tell him, son, I tell him- you don’t come the f*ck in the f*ckin’ house no matter what.”

 

“Maybe they got the wings on--”

 

“This don’t feel right.”

 

“Man, what?”

 

“Nigga, this don’t f*ckin’ feel right, man.”

 

“Homie paranoid.”

 

“Nah, son, the chair all f*cked up, that sh*t on the floor, son, he ain’t come in there on his own, nigga, somethin’ the f*ck up.”

 

They don’t sound pleased.

 

The paranoid one pulls his gun.

 

f*ck.

 

Trudges closer through the lawn.

 

f*cking f*ck.

 

Picks up a pebble from the ground. And flings the thing at your window.

 

Clink. 

 

Clink, clink. That’s two more.

 

It’s time to f*cking jet.

 

Age grabs the keys and shoves them into the backpack, keys two bricks in his hand, grabs the shottie with the other. f*ck, it’s heavy. You’re in control now - you gotta f*cking go. Age isn’t walking calm, he’s jittering, he’s rushing himself, he’s whisper-shouting “Guys, guys, f*ck, guys!” and headed down the steps fast as he can.

 

Down the flight. You hear the guys outside coming closer.

 

Jon: “Oh sh*t!”

 

“How much sh*t you got there, baby?”

 

“Roy--”

 

“That china or that brown? I gotta--”

 

“Moolies came for a f*cking re-up, Roy, they’re f*cking outside.”

 

There are four f*cking block boys staring up at you confused lying down on the floor. Roy’s doing calculations in his head, Jonnie’s sh*t drops and his eyes bulge and he’s got his gun aimed.

 

Roy sucks in cheek. “Gimme the sh*t.”

 

No time to hesitate, Age throws the keys and Roy distributes - there’s two. He takes one, Jon catches the other and holds it like a babe. You can hear the door creaking now, “‘Ey, Tariq? You ain’t outside, baby, you good? Kicko?”

 

“Man, Kicko lis--”

 

There’s two simple ways this just went down. Either they saw you, or you fired at them.

 

The latter? You just sprayed shotgun shells down at two guys and scattered the room - homies yell and pull guns, fire again, fire again. You could probably clear them all out but you might get jumped by the hostages, it’s four against one and their friends are getting turned into pulp. You keep this up and the first responders’ll come down to a building more blood than house. Sirens’ll blare, three f*cking stars, get out and run.

 

Might hurt the score. Best bet is just booking it out the back.

 

“Ayo, what the f*ck?!”

 

Bullets fly.

 

You gotta be quick when the revolvers started spraying lead and the walls get peppered with holes and you aren’t even thinking when pow, Roy f*cking shoulders through the screen-door that only opens one way and knocks the thing right off its hinges. Drug dealers are right behind you still firing, Roy and Jonnie booking it like a motherf*cker already by the fence.

 

Follow suit, hop the fence. This woman busts out screaming “What the hell goin’--” and yelps and ducks when she sees guns blasting and the dealers climbing over. Up the first house, up where a pitbull you didn’t notice starts bark-bark-barking while chained to some pole by the door. Enough to get Jon to tumble, shout “Goddamn mutt!” but the leash is too short for the dog to sink teeth in you.

 

Roy’s Intruder is sitting pretty.

 

“If these moolies put a bullet in my f*cking ride, I put a f*cking bullet in them!”

 

Age, “You guys cut the bricks on the f*cking fence?”

 

Jon howls, “Doggie gettin’ f*ckin’ high tonight!”

 

The goons are hopping the fence.

 

Fire.

 

A united front of gunpowder and the fence’ll get sprayed and sprayed and they won’t even climb, fingers’ll get mashed or they’ll trip and fall or they’ll scatter or worse. Coast gets clear or you run for the driver, and you better drive because Roy is occu-f*ckin’-pado. If you didn’t wipe the street guys out they start blasting and might even put a searing hot hole in the side of the vehicle.

 

And Roy’ll scream.

 

And Roy’ll go “This sh*t’s f*cking imported you eggplant f*cks!”

 

And even if that don’t happen, he’ll still lean out the window with an arm on the roof firing wild while the adrenaline still flows.

 

Floor it.

 

If the cherry tops are on you, then stick to the alleys and the side streets. Turn the headlights off, sh*t, turn the engine off if the patrol’s darting and they got the skybirds out with the spotlight. Best way to do it is beat the traffic and not get got for a speeding infraction; even better to evade by pretending it’s just another car in another alley in another ghetto.

 

The worse neighborhoods in town, like around here: they have a higher police presence, but the police don’t care so much. They’re often too busy frisking a kid for how low the pants are.

 

That’s if the pigs know.

 

Maybe the pigs respond, maybe they don’t - but the guys at the stash house aren’t going to chase you. Once you’re gone, you’re gone, and they’ll waddle back to the stash with tails between their legs, or their brains pooling out on the floor.

 

Just gotta wait.

 

And wait.

 

And you start hearing Jonnie f*cking sniff and sniff and claw at the brick - could turn to first person to see the entire inelegant display - and see him grab a chunk with his fingers and Roy going “What the f*ck, Jon?!”

 

“I wanna see what this sh*t is!”

 

“We see my guy for that. Now that sh*t’s f*cking cost, man.”

 

“We keepsies a little for ourselves, bro, we take a few bricks for sellin’ and save some for the fun, man.”

 

“That could be detergent or some sh*t.”

 

Age just mutters over the top, “f*ckin’ junkie, man.”

 

Jon ignores. Powder-tipped fingers he kisses and sniffs, “Oh man, that is f*cking coke!”

 

“Good value.”

 

Jon’s eyes are lit the f*ck up, “Good f*cking coke, too! Wow! God.”

 

He flips the key over and spills a little in his lap, you get a glimpse of the saran packaging branded with a tiger now split up and spilling dust. To say the least? Jonnie’s making a real f*cking mess.

 

Roy snatches it. “You’re cleaning my f*cking car.”

 

“Yeah, I’ll f*cking clean it, Roy. I’ll clean the motherf*cker. Japtrap won’t get no f*ckin’- no f*cking coke inside you leave me and a f*ckin’ vacc--”

 

“Shut up, Jon.”

 

“Listen to Age. Your dad sees you like this and your dad’ll take a f*ckin’ axe to me and everyone--”

 

“WOOOO!! Damn, that’s f*ckin’ hitting, oh my f*ck!”

 

Roy turns neck: “79 Nickerson Circle. That’s where my guy is. He’s got a backyard we can hose Junior down with once we’re settled.”

 

“We ain’t headed back to the Cusumano Compound, Zeets?”

 

“I seen Vicegrip a thousand times, man. I got this boxset at home. Don’t worry about them, just roll.”

 

Roll.

 

Nickerson Circle is in Minthrone - also likely not a very long drive. On the border of Harriway proper the inclines get longer and larger and the trees start to sprout ever-taller. You’re bound for that upper-class suburbia where the houses are either quirky old Victorians or gaudy mini McMansions. There’s a church on the corner leading up, up, up; up into the gentle greens.

 

And when you loop around onto the circle - you know where Roy’s man is.

 

Because the nicest house on the block is lit up in colors.

 

It’s this place looking almost like a manor with the lights inside flashing rainbows and music pump-pump-pumping and cannonball splashes into a pool you can’t see. Roy directs, tells you “Not in the driveway, bro, he’s got his cars parked there,” pulls you off to the side of the road where 20 other cars are lined up.

 

Adrian chuckles, “Good wetback, huh?”

 

“I told you.”

 

He’s got big guys in black t-shirts showing bodybuilder biceps and pectorals bigger than heads who put hands up while you walk up the hill - Roy nods, tells them his name, the guys nod and say “Ozzie knows what the f*ck is up, son,” and they let you be.

 

The doors swing open.

 

The music pulsates.

 

It’s a fiesta. Stairs to the front of you leading up while the party pulsates downstairs and the houselights flash-flash-flash. Jonnie’s blinking like a motherf*cker like he can barely make out what’s going on. The boys are sweating through their shirts and their hair’s mopped the f*ck out.

 

All the guests are too f*cked up on ecstasy to really care.

 

Up the winding staircase. Up past the bedrooms where you can hear people moaning. Check behind yourself and you’ll see more bouncer-looking guys with muscles and muscle shirts following right behind you.

 

Into an office.

 

“Oswaldo, mi hombre!”

 

There’s a big fat guy at a desk, this mahogany desk with a velvet-suede couch and a hundred knick-knacks and gold records and, sh*t, you take a moment - there’s a f*cking platted-out AK-47 on a gun rack by this big ornate glass of something strong.

 

Big fat guy is grinning like a madman, gets up for a full view: this massive silver chain with the top buttons split open, this beautiful patterned Santo Capra shirt with the swooping patterns, all massive, sh*t; he’s like 5’7” but looks about three yards f*cking wide. He gives this big deep chuckle and laughs out “Roy, my man,” and comes in for a bear hug.

 

Roy’s enveloped. He comes out with the grin back to the wide zone and his arms on the fat man’s shoulders: “This is Oswaldo-the-Oz-f*ckin’-Quiroga, guys.”

 

Ozzie chuckles again, “Pleasure’s all mine.”

 

All Age and Jon can do is nod silent-like.

 

Roy gestures, “These guys are my- euh, well… Age. Show ‘em the stuff.”

 

Adrian goes to the couch and dumps all coke bricks out.

 

Beat.

 

“Ah.”

 

Roy agrees, “Yeah.”

 

Ozzie rubs chin. “That is sweet. Man. Roy--”

 

“What I tell you?”

 

“You tell me good, Roy, you tell me good. Adrian and-...”

 

“Jon,” says Jon.

 

“Jon. You work overtime, my friends.” He can’t stop smiling. “I’m gonna count this. You guys want some drink, eh?” Waltzes over to the glass of something expensive, just pours without answer and shotguns the f*cking thing.

 

Adrian and Roy oblige.

 

Jon stands by the corner and rubs his nose. There’s saluts, there’s cheers, there’s whatever, Ozzie chuckles; “You people are alright.”

 

“Hope f*ckin’ so, Oz.”

 

“I’mma count this. You boys - you have fun. You party. You come see me again, si?”

 

Roy answers for you - “Si f*ckin’ si.”

 

And like that, you’re out the door.

 

Have fun. The music pulsates. The bodies move. There’s free food and free liquor and free f*ckin’ ecstasy. Enjoy it ‘til the morning comes up and the stragglers get the boot. Congratulations. That’s a score.

 

+ $1,350