Book II – Chapter 07: Meeting

Posted On July 7, 2014

The ground was sparkling. Shards of glass, ranging from wide slabs to thin slivers, covered the floor of the restaurant. Light reflected from the soft lamps above, turning the dark floor into a starry sky. Tables and chairs lay toppled, unmoving, caught in the moment. Not even the blood dared to trickle, the beads and trails waiting motionless over the tablecloths.

Ferris took a step forward. The broken glass crunched beneath his sole, the only sound in the frozen room. He stepped gingerly over a body, avoiding eye contact as he moved. Each corpse lay exposed, their limbs bent and draped, scattered between the rows of dining sets. There was only one thing that caught his eye — a body across the room, its length covered by a single white sheet.

He moved forward, his shoes nudging bullet shells aside as he walked. A noise began to fill the stale air; static — a police radio. He paid it no mind — it wasn’t important. The only thing that mattered was the sheet before him and the single hand peeking out from the hem of the cloth. Kneeling, he let his fingers stop on the corner of the sheet. The static was growing louder, but he continued to ignore it.

Ferris swept the sheet free.

In an instant, he awoke, gagging on his own breath. It rushed into his chest, arching his back as his eyes locked on the ceiling. He could still hear it — the static, its hush distant and muffled. He could see her face, her eyes dull and cold beneath him.

“Alex,” he mouthed, his body paralyzed beneath the sheets.

A minute passed before his arms would move. Hesitantly, he lifted his hands, bracing them on the mattress as he forced himself upright. His head swayed as he placed his feet on the cool wooden floor, then unsteadily crossed the room.

He avoided his reflection in the bathroom mirror, only tugging it open for the cache concealed behind the glass. The medicine cabinet was perfectly arranged, its color-coded bottles and tubes kept in neat rows on the shelves. He groped for the bottle on the lowest shelf, the pills rattling inside the transparent orange plastic.

For a moment, he stared down at the pill in his hand — an inconspicuous pink oval.

“Shit,” he muttered, then tilted his head back to swallow.

Upon arriving, Ferris was glad to see that Giorgetti’s was in one piece. Though its ruin would mean he had gained powers of precognitive dreaming, the last thing the restaurant needed was a second round of destruction. They had a meeting to hold, after all. He was greeted by a forest of upturned chairs, their seats resting neatly on the tabletops. Though the establishment was closed for the evening, there was still business to attend to.

Ashtrays and whiskey glasses covered the long table in the back room. Smoke drifted lazily from a cigar stub, curling in the air as it burnt itself out. At the head of the table sat Gino, his blue eyes creasing as he laughed beneath the painting of the Palinuro. Flanking him were Victor and Roberto, his two sons and highest ranking captains.

In the past, Demos had been resigned to stand against a wall during the rare meetings he was allowed into. In the last year, however, he had been given an increasing number of responsibilities, taking his place as a member of his uncle’s crew. Though Victor had practically raised the boy, he had shown no bias towards his nephew, often burdening him with the messiest of tasks. Eager to impress, the Ghost had uttered no complaints, carrying out even the most tedious requests with total focus. For now, this had earned him a seat.

Perhaps, if he’d been on time more often, his chair would not be at the far end of the table.

Ferris took his place behind Demos, resting a hand on the back of his chair. Demos glanced back, giving the other a faint smile before turning his attention back to the table.

“His name was Shaffer,” he said, continuing his explanation of the tapping incident. “Not sure if he’ll try again, but we’re watching him either way.”

The bug, which had been set up in that very room, had since been removed. This was only after subjecting the two policemen to the entire Godfather trilogy — twelve times.

“You get the judge?” Victor asked, setting his glass down on the table with a clink. Sal, his top crew member, watched warily from his side.

“Not yet,” Demos replied, shaking his head. “Lee’s working on it.”

“Well, tell him to work harder. We need that name,” Victor growled.

“Minding policemen is not our job,” Gino said, his voice low. “Roberto — I’d like you to meet with Blakely. Nothing serious — just a friendly reminder of his responsibilities. It seems his… memory is slipping.”

“Of course,” his son replied with a nod. Blakely, Southport’s police commissioner, was currently serving his second appointed term. Fortunately, the man’s foul private life had given them a perfect source of blackmail to puppeteer him with. Unfortunately, no police chief could serve forever.

“And what did you get on the Marianis?” Victor asked, turning his attention to Sergio.

“You’re not going to like it,” he answered, looking back at his father with a knit brow.

“What? What am I not going to like?”

“It’s the Arabs… they never left.”

“And what does that have to do with the Marianis?” Victor asked, tightening his hold on his glass. Sergio didn’t reply and in a moment, it clicked.

“Fanculo,” he spat. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

“They signed up with the Marianis. Don’t know how big of a deal it is yet, but they’re probably going to rake it in.”

“I told you, Ash,” Alonzo said from his seat next to Demos. “I told you we should have taken this deal.”

Victor’s attention snapped towards his cousin, his eyes burning as he opened his mouth. Before he could speak, however, Gino silenced him with an outstretched hand.

“Alonzo,” he said, his tone even. “You know why we had to say ‘no.’”

“I know, and it’s bullshit.”

“If you have a problem with the way I run things,” Gino replied, his head lowering ever so slightly, “I would be happy to hear your thoughts.”

The room was silent as the men waited for a response. Alonzo refused eye contact, only managing to stare at the far end of the table. The lines on his face twitched, yet he said nothing.

“I see,” Gino said, raising his head once more. The entire room seemed to collectively exhale. Victor finished his drink, then cleared his throat.

“Anything else, Sergio?” he asked.

“Yeah, one more thing. Since we’ve got most of Southport, they’ve started going out of town for deals. The new head, Jimmy — he’s got a real business mind. He knows how to make money.”

“Out of town?” Demos asked, his interest piqued. “Where?”

“You know that casino upstate?” Sergio asked, gesturing with a hand. “The Indian one… Buncha Pines, or something.”

“Six Pines,” Ferris said, speaking for the first time since he’d entered the room.

“Yeah, Six Pines. You know it?”

“They’re one of our clients,” Ferris said hesitantly. “I’ve been up there a few times. It’s a three hour drive.”

“Well, the Marianis want in on the casino racket. They went up once, but I don’t think it worked out.”

“So let it go,” Roberto said with a shrug.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Demos said, his hands laced tightly on the table. “They’re stubborn — they’re going to try until they get what they want.”

“So we’ll get to them first,” Victor said. “I heard this place is big — bigger than the one we’ve got by the airport. Could be worth it. If those assholes get that much green coming in, they’re going to be a much bigger pain in the ass than they are now.”

“How the hell are we supposed to do that?” asked Sal, who had been uncharacteristically quiet the entire meeting.

“Ghost,” Victor said, locking his eyes on his nephew. Demos swallowed, unsure if he was reading his uncle correctly.

“Me?” he asked carefully, his skin beginning to prickle in anticipation.

“You can bring Fish up there, see what you can get. Think you can handle it?”

Demos took a breath through his nose, his chest rising beneath the collar of his suit.

“I know I can,” he said, meeting Victor’s eyes as he spoke. “I’ll—“

A sharp clatter cut through the air as a fist hit the table. The glass ashtrays shifted on the surface, their carefully balanced cigars toppling into the bowls.

“You’re fucking kidding me. Him. You’re sending him?” Alonzo seethed, gesturing at the young man beside him. “I’m the one that was right about the fucking Arabs. This kid’s barely dropped his balls and you’re giving him the casino? If this little finocch—“

Alonzo was unable to finish his slur. Demos’ chair had scraped back, nearly toppling as he grasped the man’s shirt in his fist. His fingers were white, twisting the fabric between his knuckles as he brought their faces together.

“Don’t call me that,” he hissed, his voice only loud enough for Alonzo to hear. “Ever again.”

“Come on,” Sergio said, firmly taking his cousin by the arms. “Let him go.”

The fabric around Alonzo’s neck tightened, digging against his throat as he glared back at his assailant. Demos didn’t look away, only sucking in his next breath through his teeth.

“Demos,” Gino said gently. “Let go.”

A moment later, his fingers uncurled, releasing the older man’s wrinkled collar. Alonzo coughed, shoving Demos off before turning away to rub his throat.

“Now sit down,” Gino continued.

Demos complied, doing his best to keep his head upright. The corners of his eyes remained tight with ire, but his mouth sat obediently closed.

“I’m backing Victor’s decision. Demos will go,” Gino said, directing his words to the far end of the table.

“Listen, kid,” Victor said, gesturing to his nephew with a pointed finger. “I don’t want any roughhousing — no messes. You’re just going there to talk. Got it?”

“Understood,” Demos replied. His tone was flat — it was all he could do to hide the shiver in his voice. Beneath the table, his hands clenched his own knees, digging tight to keep from shaking.

It was past midnight when the meeting ended. Ferris had said little else, more content to listen than to speak. It was only when he was secure in the privacy of Demos’ car that he opened his mouth again.

“You okay?” he asked, giving his friend a sideways glance as he drove.

“Yeah,” the Italian murmured. “I’m fine.”

“Good, because I’m about to yell at you.”

“What, you don’t want to do the casino?” Demos asked, emphasizing the hurt in his voice.

“No,” Ferris snapped. “I don’t.”

“But what—“

“No. No, no, no. And no,” he said, each ‘no’ more spiteful than the last. “I’ve helped you do a lot of stupid shit in the past, but I’m not going to help you do this.”

“Why the hell not?”

“I don’t even know where to begin. I… I just— okay, first of all, they’re my clients. This could hurt my career. Hello, Sterling LLP? Yeah, one of your trusted accountants just came over here with a mafia goon demanding money, is that part of the contract?”

Demos opened his mouth to protest, but was immediately cut off.

“Second, it’s an Indian casino. These people go through enough shit on a daily basis without more fucking white guys running in there making demands.“

“Okay, I get it. I get it,” Demos said, holding his hands up defensively. “But you’re forgetting one important thing.”

“What?” Ferris hissed, momentarily forgetting his driving to shoot Demos a glower.

“If it’s not us, it’s going to be the Marianis.”

Ferris said nothing, only returning his attention to the road.

“And you know they don’t play nice,” Demos continued.

“Oh, like you do.”

“Hey, you heard Uncle Vic. We’re not going to hurt anyone. Just talk.”

Ferris squinted at the road, unable to think of a response. Street lamps streamed over his face as they drove, rhythmically draping him in light and dark.

“So, what’ll it be? Us, or the Marianis?”

Ferris sighed, his breath slow with the weight of his answer. For a minute, he struggled with his own voice, wishing he had some other — any other choice.

“Fine. I’ll go.”

“Thanks.” Demos kept his voice soft, not wanting to rub salt into Ferris’ wounded pride. They drove in silence for another minute before the other spoke once more.

“…You sure you’re okay? With… with what Alonzo said.”

“Mhm,” Demos replied, not entirely convincing as he turned to gaze out the window.

“You think he knows?”

“I don’t know,” he murmured, watching as neon-lit bar signs flickered past. “But I sure as fuck hope not.”