Book II – Chapter 15: Demo

Posted On August 20, 2015

Most Sundays at the Giorgetti compound began with Chopin. The notes would dance through the empty halls, trailing through filtered light and walnut railings. Since arriving in Southport, Isabella had cherished these mornings, taking each one in the sitting room with a cappuccino and a plain cornetto. That day, however, the house was silent. Demos’ hands were still, positioned to begin his favorite nocturne. His fingertips hovered over the keys, white on white, yet he could not bring himself to draw forth a single chord.

For a while, he simply stared. There was a soft clink as his grandmother set down her cup, a rustle as she folded her hands. She was always so patient, a trait he hadn’t seemed to inherit. Demos closed his eyes, replaying the previous night in his mind, recalling each word for the thousandth time. He could still sense it, the color of Ferris’ shirt as he disappeared into the crowd, the tone of his voice just before he left.

Once again, Demos had made a mistake. It was all he could do lately — make mistakes.

The piano lid shut with a clack. He slipped from the bench, grabbing his wallet from a side table.

Isabella glanced up. “Piccolo, dove stai andando?”

He dared not look back as left the room, leaving her with a single, dull word.

“Chiesa.”

St. Anthony of Padua hadn’t changed in the last few months. The same stone walls and the same heavy doors greeted Demos as he moved past the pews. The second mass had just ended and hushed voices rustled through the air like dry leaves. There was a line for the confessional. Demos avoided eye contact with the other patrons, keeping his gaze low until his turn finally came.

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been—“ He paused to count the time. “Twelve weeks since my last confession.”

Demos couldn’t see through the slatted window, but was certain the priest was smiling.

“Back so soon?”

“I missed one.” Demos dragged his fingers up through his hair. “Envy.”

Of all the sins the priest had heard from this particular visitor, envy had never been on the list before. He listened intently, silent as Demos continued.

“I hurt him. I think I hurt him. It’s the last thing I’d ever want to do.” His nails dug into his scalp, exposing the old, pale scar across his brow. “What’s wrong with me?”

“You envy this person?”

“Her — I envy her. I don’t know how she does it. How does she make him so happy?  I try so hard to watch what I say, to keep everything down. How come I failed then? How could I let that happen?”

“Were you cruel to him?”

“I don’t know. I tried not to— I tried not to be selfish. I waited so long for him to come back and now—“

Demos swallowed, allowing his hair to fall over over his brow. He sat hunched, eyes locked on his lap in the dusty light.

“Now he’s in my hands and I’m holding too tight. I don’t want to lose him again.”

There was a creak of wood as the priest shifted in his seat. “Then what is it you want?”

“I want him to be happy,” Demos said without thinking.

 “And is he?”

“He’s been smiling lately.” Demos’ voice softened to a whisper as he thought of the exact expression. That rare softness in Ferris’ eyes, how their color seemed so much warmer when he spoke of her. The corner of his mouth would lift, slightly at first, then rise as he parted his lips to laugh. It made Demos forget every other detail of those times — where they were, what they were talking about. None of it mattered, nothing except the happiness set so deeply in his friend’s face.

“I just wish that smile was for me.”

The demonstration was set for the late afternoon. Sunlight streamed in through the high warehouse windows, casting dramatic shadows over the vast interior. Wooden folding tables had been arranged in a line down the center, their surfaces covered in various firearms and pieces of equipment. Ferris had helped Benny arrange the targets on the far wall, ensuring they were at the exact distance Demos had specified. Benny had been able to carry much heavier loads than Ferris, standing at half a foot taller and carrying about twice as much muscle on his frame.

Ferris counted the last of the firearms, writing the tally in a worn planner. “Is this everything?”

“Alonzo deliver all crates this morning,” Benny said. “I check, they are good.”

Ferris glanced at his watch.

“The Hills are late.” He lifted his head, letting his attention drift from Benny to the empty warehouse. “And so is Demos.”

He had expected this. The Hills could not be blamed, as they had to drive halfway across New York State and through the gauntlet of Southport traffic. Demos’ only excuse was his own rotten personality. Benny shrugged, making a poor attempt to hide his amused grin.

A steel door on the far wall creaked open. Ferris held his breath, silently hoping Ellen wouldn’t beat Demos to his own demonstration.

For once, his prayers seemed to work. A dark figure stepped through, one so slim and smartly dressed that it could be no one but Demos Giorgetti. His footsteps echoed across the wide space, stopping only when he arrived at Ferris’ side.

Benny was the first to speak. “Carino da parte tua unirti a noi.”

“Stai zitto,” Demos said before shifting his attention to Ferris.

“Did you get my calls?”

“I was busy,” was all Ferris said before walking past to examine the contents of a crate. Demos followed, a duckling in his friend’s shadow.

“Are you still mad?”

“This isn’t the time for that,” Ferris said, his brow low. “Ellen’s going to arrive any minute now. Are you ready for the demo?”

Demos took a moment to answer. He closed his eyes, then nodded. “I think so. I should have learned to say ‘hi’ in Indian.”

“Indian isn’t a language.” Ferris closed the crate with a clack. “Six Pines is run by Oneida.”

“Could you stop being a smart ass for like, one minute?”

Ferris’ usual dry retort never came. He finally looked at his friend, his eyes dull, heavy with the weight of the previous night. There was no banter, no hint of that familiar, affectionate frustration that always came at times like these. There was only silence.

Ferris stepped away.

It hit Demos tenfold — the sting under his collar, nestled between his heart and ribs. He stared at the crate until it lost form, a blur of scuffed, blue plastic.

The door creaked open once more. Afternoon light spilled into the warehouse, a stark white plane on the concrete floor. Their guests had arrived.

They were a group of three, Ellen, Don, and another man they had never seen before. They were led inside by Gina, who had met them at the warehouse’s outer gate. Gina’s part as host had been unanimously agreed upon — she seemed to be the Giorgetti that Ellen disliked the least.

Ferris shook Ellen’s hand. “Good afternoon. I—“

He paused as he took proper notice of Don. A plum-colored bruise ran from his temple down past his cheek and his right arm had been secured in a sling.

Ferris gave a thin frown. “Don. I’m sorry.”

“No worries,” Don said, taking Ferris palm in an almost too-firm grip. “I’m left handed.”

“This is Dennis.” Ellen gestured to the third member of their party, an older man with a square jaw and salt and pepper hair. “He has final say in all of our purchasing.”

Demos was only half-present as greetings were exchanged, having been too distracted by his own self-pity to realize the weight of his role. A single clap of Ellen’s hands snapped him to attention.

“Well,” she said, her eyes bright behind the safety glasses Gina had given her. “Show us what you’ve got.”

It was then Demos noticed he was clenching his own wrist. He loosened his hand, his eyes screwing shut as he buried every fear and regret that had been swimming around his head since the previous night. His mind emptied, zeroing in on one thing and one thing only. It was time to work.

He opened his eyes, giving Ellen a nod.

“Of course,” he said as he positioned the proper safety attire over his head. The weapons were arranged neatly across the row of tables, each one resting beside a set of loaded magazines.

“We all know your primary concern is defense.” Demos rested his hand on the edge of the table. “You need something powerful, yet easy to use.”

He lifted the first gun, a long, black rifle that looked as if it had come straight from a war film.

“This is the Colt AR-15, the civilian version of the military’s top assault weapon. It’s lightweight, simple to assemble, and ideal for close quarters combat.” He angled the weapon to the ground, allowing a better view of the hand guard. “The barrel is 4150 vanadium steel, designed to disperse heat. And when you’re shooting 700 rounds a minute, it’s going to get hot. Luckily, the Picatinny rail, which is standard for attachments, will keep your hands safe.”

He seated a polymer magazine, pulling back the charging handle before releasing it with a clack.

“Step back, please.”

There was a collective shift as the row of bodies behind him moved away. Demos lined the iron sight, then fired.

The sound of shots filled the air, carrying up to the soaring, dusty ceiling. Casings clattered as they hit the ground, just as puffs of smoke swelled and dissipated. The scent of lubricant and gunpowder followed, a whiff of chemicals lingering behind each shot. He had emptied half of the magazine before stopping, hitting the release to let it slip into his hand.

Even when the shooting had stopped, the warehouse still seemed to ring with the remnants of each gunshot. The cardboard target on the far wall had settled, its core riddled with ten clustered holes.

“These retail for about 1k, but we could certainly work something out for a bulk purchase. Not to mention the convenience of skipping background checks and licenses.” Demos gave Ellen a poised smile. “Would you like to try it out?”

Her eyes seemed to glint at his invitation. “Absolutely.”

Demos’ heart skipped. Few things sealed the deal with a customer as effectively as a test drive.

Ferris glanced from Ellen to the gun. “Do you need him to—“

“I used to hunt white-tail with my father,” she said, cutting off his offer of a tutorial. She set in a fresh magazine, letting the bolt clack as it fed the round.

“And I was better than him.”

“I’m glad we’ve all maintained a sense of modesty,” Ferris said under his breath. Once again, shots rang across the boundless space, littering the floor with brass. When the smoke cleared, he could see the smile on her face had grown.

“Not bad,” she said. “What else have you got?”

Demos lifted the second rifle. “If you like that one, we also have a Smith and Wesson M&P15.”

 The demonstration continued through rifles, handguns, and finally onto Kevlar vests. It seemed that, for the time being, Ellen had forgotten her distaste for the young Italian. Dennis had remained quiet for the most part, only speaking up for more details on costs and transportation.

“If we were to place an order,” Ellen said, removing the muffs from her ears, “What kind of ETA would we be looking at?”

“Tomorrow evening, at the soonest,” Gina said. “Longer if you order past our stock. Though we’re certain you would want to—“

A noise stopped her sentence midway — a low, gravely rumble from just past the warehouse walls. It was an engine, one at full speed and growing louder by the second.

Demos stared at the loading dock door. “Someone’s here.”

“I encrypted those emails,” Ferris said, his voice wavering. “I could have sworn I—“

“Fish, in the office.” Demos pointed at the small room behind them. “Get my gun.”

The engine roared just past the walls, bouncing from steel and concrete.

“But there are—“

“Go.”

 Ferris let out a sharp breath before turning toward the office. It was a small room with half-painted walls and a simple corner desk. The computer looked as if had hadn’t been moved since the 90’s, with a keyboard covered in scattered notes. A quick scan revealed nothing that remotely resembled a firearm.

“I don’t see—“

The door slammed shut behind him. There was a click, followed by a thud as a large object was propped against the doorknob.

“Demos!” Ferris rattled the handle, shoving against the door with his shoulder. “What the hell are you doing? Let me out!”

“Stay in there.” Demos’ voice was muffled through the door.

“But I—“

“I said stay in there!”

“Fucking let me out!”

There was no response. The next thing Ferris heard was a torrent of crumpled metal and screeching tires. Steel buckled as a vehicle plowed through the loading dock door, sending a line of crates clattering to the floor. Then, there were gunshots.

Just as loud was the sound of his own pulse, knocking through his chest and skull as he made another hard kick at the door. His foot bounced from the surface, throbbing at the ankle. It was no use — it wouldn’t budge.

Outside the office, the Giorgettis and their guests had found cover behind overturned tables and bins. Ellen had made quick use of the first weapon she’d sampled, her heels already encircled in casings.

“Fucking Marianis,” Demos said through grit teeth, racking back the slide on a spare Beretta. Beside him, Benny had made every attempt to bend his large frame behind a stack of cartons. There was a ping as his shot bounced from a metal surface, the sound barely audible over the cacophony of gunfire. Demos glanced over, took aim, then paused.

The men that had poured out of the truck weren’t Italian. One had a face he knew — a face he had seen only months before. Victor had not-so-subtly threatened to burn the man alive before suggesting that he leave town and never return.

It was Hassan. He hadn’t left town.

The only window in the cramped office was on the door itself, thick and frosted, obscuring Ferris’ view of the catastrophe that was occurring just on the other side. How could Demos have done this — locking him in a tiny room like some child? What had they trained him for? The shooting ranges, the torturous trips to the gym — what had any of it been for if he couldn’t help his friend?

Somewhere past the wall, a man screamed in pain.

Ferris’s fingers clawed lines over the back of his head. If he could only see past the window, then—

No, he didn’t need to see past the window. He had to get through it.

The desk chair wasn’t heavy, lifting from the ground in one smooth motion. He took a breath, then swung. The legs hit the door in one sweep, shattering the surface with the shriek of steel of glass. Shards burst across the concrete floor, each piece glinting in the smoky light. A loose chair wheel slid past a toppled ammunition case before slowly rolling to a stop. Just as Ferris looked through to find the handle, his eyes froze.

Twenty yards ahead, Demos was on the ground. The others, both friend and foe, were too occupied to notice — all but one. Hassan loomed over the smaller man, his heel pinning Demos’ wrist to the floor as a handgun lay only inches from his fingers. He was speaking, but Ferris couldn’t hear his words. His words didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but the Italian on the floor.

The office door swung open. Glass crunched beneath Ferris’ soles as he stepped forward, grasping the first weapon in arm’s reach. The semi-automatic pistol sat tightly in his grip, the metal growing warm under his palm as he snapped in a magazine. He went through each motion without thinking — the safety, the cock, not once removing his eyes from the two men across the floor. Gunfire rang in from either side, echoing, yet unheard.

Hassan lifted his arm.

The gun in Ferris’ hand rose, the sight lined perfectly over his target’s chest. The air was suddenly cold, harsh as it rushed down his throat.

Ferris took one step — one breath, then fired.