Book II – Chapter 18: Butcher Shop

Posted On December 2, 2015

The day peeked in through a set of brown curtains, a halo of white against the murk of the room. The sheets had been torn from the motel bed, spilling over the stiff mattress and onto the floor. Demos pushed himself upright, a ghost rising from a corpse. His spine curved, slow and jutted, his hair draped over his eyes. Once again, he had woken in the Bliss Motel and, once again, he couldn’t remember who was laying next to him.

He closed his eyes. Perhaps, if he thought deeply enough, he could be somewhere else — in a simple, yet decidedly warm bed, surrounded by that austere, clean smell, the one that reminded him of old books and rosin. He imagined a pair of arms, long and lean, wrapped over him like a old sweater. Demos smiled.

“Morning, Babe.”

Two words were all it took to demolish his fantasy. His smile dropped, leaving his features cold. It wasn’t the voice he’d hoped for.

It was never the voice he’d hoped for.

Demos rubbed his eyes, not bothering to look at the man beside him. “I told you not to call me that.”

“What? I think it’s cute.”

The more Demos heard the other’s voice, the colder his skin felt. Every detail of the room grew more vivid, more real — the dingy wallpaper, the smudges on the mirror and the lingering odor of window cleaner. Nausea crept in. He looked down at his hands, eyes drifting to the two-day-old bruises on his wrists.

“I’m not in the fucking mood.”

The mattress shifted, followed by hot breath on the back of his ear. “Well, you sure were in the mood last night.”

Demos winced at the memory, every muscle in his body tensing at once. It had happened again, the way it always did. Chasing distractions, attempting to fill that hole in his chest with something, anything. It was easy to imagine at night. But, God, did he hate these mornings.

“But, anyway,” the voice continued, “I really enjoyed it — yesterday, all of it. I know it’s only been a few weeks, but I think I really—“

“Don’t.”

There was a pause. “What?”

“Not now, Tommy.”

The air conditioner sputtered. After a breath, Demos felt the hands slip from his shoulders. There was a shuffling as the man gathered his clothes, fastening his pants with a metallic zip.

“My name is Tracy.”

Sunlight flooded the room, then vanished as the door slammed shut. A cup on the dresser toppled, then rolled to a stop. Demos was alone once more.

Teeth grit, he dug a silver case from his rumpled slacks, lighting a cigarette with a click and a snap. He huffed a plume through his nose, his vision momentarily clouded with smoke.

“Whatever, Tommy.”

#

Smoke had filled the back room of Valesio’s Butcher Shop. It was as if the entire space was in monochrome, its walls stark white, its stainless steel countertops and cutting machines laid beneath rows of black hooks. There wasn’t a cut of meat to be seen, yet Demos could still smell it — the odor of thawing flanks and sausage grinder residue. It was a miracle one could smell anything beyond cigarette smoke, as the men seated at the table had already filled the ashtray to the brim.

“Bullshit.” The man across Demos leaned in, leering. “You name one of our fucking guys you saw at that warehouse.”

Compared to the Ghost, Bruno Mariani was twice as old, and twice as wide — a caporegime in a struggling syndicate, a big fish in a small pond. His grimace was wide, ready to swallow the boy whole.

Somehow, Demos held his ground. “We didn’t have to—“

“You’re wasting our time, kid. Some camel-fuckers bust up your little gun show and the first thing you think to do is come at us? Really, we did it? Says fuckin’ who?”

Demos swallowed. Hassan had given him further details before leaving the clinic — which Mariani had passed down the order, how many men they had requested, at what time. It would be easy to throw Hassan under the bus, to use his testimony as the perfect glove-slap across Bruno’s face. Hassan, however, had gone through enough near-death experiences in the last week. It wouldn’t be right to give him another.

“Says me.” Demos crushed his cigarette out, keeping his eyes on Bruno. “That’s some cowardly shit, hiding behind the Arabs. It fits you to a T.”

“Gino, your boy’s got a real mouth on him. Maybe you should seat him back at the kiddie table before he gets it smacked the fuck off.”

Ferris tensed in place, his hand tightening on the back of Demos’ chair.

“You asked for him, Bruno.” Gino tugged a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbing at his forehead. “And if you can’t handle a boy, you’re welcome to negotiate with someone your own size.”

With decisive, even movements, Gino folded the silk handkerchief. Bruno stared at the cloth as it turned in Gino’s aged hands, his eyes catching the initials in the corner – GG. There had been many of its kind through the years, all a deep blue, all left draped over the faces of men once living — men who had rubbed him the wrong way.

Bruno swallowed, the knob on his throat lurching. His attention flickered back to the younger Giorgetti.

“This is about Six Pines,” Demos said. “The Arabs don’t have any stake in it. You do.”

At this, Bruno smiled. “Yeah, Six Pines.”

“You stopped by, didn’t you?” said the man at Bruno’s side. He was younger, with a head of thick, dark hair. There was something familiar about him, something that made Demos’ skin crawl.

“I might have.”

“So maybe you call tell us why Sandro never came home.”

Demos swallowed. That was it — Sandro. The man looked like Sandro.

“I don’t know any Sandro.”

“Bullshit you don’t. Went up himself, said he wanted to check things out. You wanna tell us what happened to him?”

Demos’ hands fisted under the table. “I told you, I don’t know—“

“You call us cowards — you call us liars? You fucking killed him!”

Bruno sighed. “Aldo.”

Demos had heard the name before. Aldo, one of Bruno’s crew — Aldo DeSimone.

Aldo was shouting now, his eyes burning pink. “You killed my brother!”

Victor shifted. Demos could feel his uncle’s glare boring at him from the right. Sweat began to build on the back of Demos’ neck and in his palms, threatening to blow his composed facade.

Demos kept his eyes forward, daring to quirk his lip. “Says fuckin’ who?”

The table scuffed the floor as Aldo leapt forward. There was a clank as the ashtray hit the floor, spilling a mass of crumpled cigarette butts. Hands scrambled for Demos’ throat, only to be crushed under the man’s own body as he was thrust to the tabletop with a thump. He ground his teeth, blinking sweat from his eyes as he looked up to see a man with glasses — one who hadn’t moved until that very moment.

“He said he never met him,” Ferris said, pinning Aldo with his shoulder. Demos stared from his seat, his heart racing as he watched the man struggle.

Aldo spat. “You got proof he didn’t?”

Ferris’ hold tightened, corkscrewing Aldo’s arm against his ribs. “You have proof he did?”

The bulb flickered overhead. The room was quiet, with only Aldo’s pants cutting through the stifling air.

Victor was the first to speak. “Back up, Fish.”

A few seconds passed before Ferris relaxed his hold. Aldo shoved him off, dusting the chest of his powder-blue suit. He muttered under his breath, in words barely recognizable as curses.

Bruno lifted his head. “You watch your back, kid.”

Demos stood. His shadow hung over the veneer, casting a dark patch over Bruno’s chest as he walked past.

“Likewise.”

Though it was still summer, the outside air had never felt fresher. The back room of the butcher shop was clearly never meant to house such a number of men, though Demos wasn’t sure it was suitable for housing meat, either. He took a deep breath, sliding down in the backseat of Victor’s Lincoln.

“Ghost,” came a voice from the front. Demos looked up, catching his uncle’s glare in the rearview mirror. He hurried to straighten himself, clearing his throat before speaking.

“Yes?”

“You wanna tell me why Bruno’s boy thinks you killed his brother?”

Demos mouth opened, but he couldn’t seem to gather an answer. How could he tell the truth, right there in front of his uncle, in front of his grandfather? The truth — that Sandro had gotten him halfway into bed before threatening him with blackmail — that he had to bury Sandro, just as he had to bury that secret.

The front seat creaked as Victor shifted, turning to face his nephew.

“Look at me, Demos. You look me right in the eyes and you tell me the truth.”

Demos exhaled. “Because I did.”

“Ma che cazzo!” There was a honk as Victor’s fist pounded the steering wheel. Fortunately, Demos was too petrified to jump.

Victor grasped his forehead with both hands, fingers digging through the white hair at his temples. “Coglione, you fucking idiot! What was the one thing I told you not to do?”

“Make a mess,” Demos said under his breath.

“And what did you fucking do?”

“Make a mess.”

“What part of ‘you’re just there to talk’ did you not understand? You need to make a hit, you ask me.”

“He came after me,” Demos said. “I couldn’t exactly tell him to wait while I—“

“You think I like finding this shit out through a cat fight in a fucking meat shop? You report to me, you tell me. What the fuck were you thinking?”

Demos closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Uncle Vic.”

“Well, you can think about how sorry you are when you’re walking home.”

“But I don’t—“

“Out.”

Demos had made many mistakes in the last week, but he wouldn’t make the mistake of drawing out this argument. He said nothing as he slunk from the back seat and onto the white hot parking lot in front of the butcher shop. Ferris followed after, leaving Victor and Gino inside, in the front — in the air conditioning.

“Don’t get lost, Piccolo,” Gino said through the cracked window. “I need you to help me with dinner. Take a taxi if—”

“Dad! Cut that out, you keep spoiling him.”

“Certo, certo.” Gino waved both hands in defeat. “No taxi.”

It was only a moment later that the old man gave his grandson a wink. Demos gave a weak smile in return, watching as the car rumbled to life, then disappeared down the far end of the street. All that was left was two figures in the parking lot, dark shapes against the parched concrete.

Demos squinted, attempting to read his phone screen through the glare. “He didn’t kick you out, you know.”

“He knew I’d follow you,” Ferris said. “Can’t have you — wait, what are you doing?”

“Calling a cab.” Demos held the phone to his ear, waiting for the ring.

“But Victor said—“

“Nonno winked. That means its okay.”

Ferris released a slow sigh. “You really are spoiled, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah. Shut up, they’re answering.”

Ferris eyed the street as Demos made the call, noting the lines of old row houses past a sun-bleached stop sign. They didn’t know this part of town. If they did manage to find a train station, he was certain they’d be drenched with sweat by the time they reached it. As much as he hated to admit it, a cab was the best way home.

Demos would have to learn humility some other way.

“All right, he’ll be here in five.” Demos stuffed his phone into his back pocket, then glanced around for a source of shade. “Hopefully he’ll be on time, unlike you.”

“I was only a minute late. I had to come from the other side of town.”

Demos gave him a sideways look. “You were at Alex’s?”

“Yeah. And you’re one to fucking talk. I’m surprised you managed time for this between your espresso breaks and afternoon naps.”

“Yeah, well—“ Demos’ features softened. “Well, I’m glad you came. When did you get that strong, anyway?”

“What?”

“What do you mean, ‘what?’ When you nailed Aldo to that fucking table like a plank of wood,” he said, his face reddening.

“You think I go to the gym with Sergio for fun?”

“Oh, right,” Demos said as they found shelter beneath the butcher shop awning. “You still do that.”

“You’ve got to stop running your mouth like that. He was ready to tear off your head.”

“You know as well as I do that’s never going to happen.”

Ferris stared up at the awning, knowing better than to argue. It was true — as long as the earth turned east, as long as time ticked on, Demos would continue to run his fucking mouth.

“Um, by the way,” Demos said, now shuffling in his suit pocket. “You doing anything tonight?”

“Not really, no.”

“Well, here. I got you these.”

Ferris looked down at the envelope he’d been handed. Tucked neatly below the white flap was a pair of tickets, printed in blue and gold.

Southport Natural History Museum – Annual Gala – 7:00pm

Ferris paled. “The Museum Gala? You’re taking me to—“

“No.” Demos shook his head. “I want you to take Alex. Just think of it as— as an apology.”

“But how the hell did you get these?”

“I just made a little donation in your name. You deserve a night off.”

“Jesus, Demos. I— you didn’t have to do this. But—” In spite of the sweat under his collar, Ferris pulled his friend into his arms. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d embraced, but every time he was reminded of just how small Demos was.

“But thanks. She’ll love this.”

Demos mumbled into Ferris’ shoulder. “Have a good time, okay?”

A honk cut through the air. It was a car from the curb — their cab. They stepped apart, both forcing laughs as their moment was interrupted by a second tap at the horn.

“Coming,” Demos called, wiping sweat from his eyes as they left the shade — at least, it seemed to be sweat. It had to be.

The doors shut with two slams and the cab peeled out down the blistering asphalt.

From the side of the butcher shop, Aldo flicked away a cigarette butt. He squinted, watching as the taillights of the cab grew smaller down the end of the road.

“You ever been to a gala, Lou?” he asked the taller man at his side.

“Nah.” The man leaned against the brick, giving Aldo a thin smile. “But it sounds like fun.”