Book II – Chapter 24: Insha’allah

Posted On June 16, 2020

Illustration by Eyugho

The sun was setting sooner now. When Ferris looked out the window of the office building, the darkness startled him. Had he worked too late, or was it just another signal that summer was over?

He glanced at his watch. Both.

He rubbed the ache from his eyes. At least there was enough time to make it to Chinatown — it could even be walking distance if he shuffled intently enough. What did normal people do after work?

“Going down?” His coworker was holding the elevator door open.

“Thanks, Sandy.”

The ‘L’ button glowed orange before the cab began its descent. It wasn’t uncommon for the two to share an elevator; she worked late even more than he did.

“Headed home?” he asked. It was a long enough ride that silence would have been awkward.

“No, meeting the rest of my team at karaoke. It’s Friday — you do know what Friday is, right?”

“Sure.”

She smiled, as if coming to revelation. “You should come with us. You never come out for office stuff — people think you don’t like them.”

“No, it’s true. I hate everyone here.”

Sandy gave something between a scoff and a laugh. “And that’s why you bring bagels and shit on Wednesdays, because you hate us?”

“Honestly, I’ve got a thing. Meeting a friend at a—“ He paused, trying to think of a more socially acceptable word than ‘gambling den.’ “A bar.”

“Then I’ll go with. Unless you’re lying to weasel out of this.”

“Not a lie. But—“ Ferris gave a tight-lipped smile. “I don’t think you’d like this place.”

#

It was true. Sandy in marketing would have absolutely hated this place. There was no name, no sign, just a door without a number behind a Chinese bakery. It was a basement without windows, without any way to release the low-hanging cigarette smoke and the smell of liquor. Tonight it was here, card tables and televisions broadcasting five different sports and one news channel. Next week it would be gone, and this would be just another musty, empty basement.

“Quiet.” Demos took a sip of scotch. “It’s a perfect plan — unless you’ve got a better one?”

Ferris watched idly as an elderly woman scraped a handful of chips into her bosom at the poker table.

“No, but I’m worried about Lee. He’s gotten away with a lot, but we might be pushing our luck. They’re going to look into him.”

Demos gave him a sideways brow raise. “They? Who exactly is ‘they?’ You sound like a conspiracy theorist.”

They were both standing against a back wall, doing their best to stay out of the way as they waited for Victor to finish a conversation. Ferris’ attention had drifted to a hanging television, muted with closed captions that were four seconds too slow. The news was on — bailouts, politicians, the usual.

“Everyone.” Ferris shrugged. “Journalists, other cops.”

“We’ve been on easy mode with Blakely until now. Nobody wants to go back to hard. We have to at least try.”

“Guess so. And I appreciate you trying to use a video game metaphor for me.”

“Did I use it right?”

Ferris smiled. “Right enough.”

There were few faces in the den that Ferris recognized. Victor was immersed in a one-on-one conversation, his words snapping, his hands gesturing in time. Alonzo was on a landline, hunched over a counter as he scribbled on scrap paper with a dying pen. He’d arrived a half hour earlier with a friend — a square-headed man with a tightly buzzed haircut and a righteous curl in his smile. Ferris had seen him before — hadn’t he? His name was something that began with ‘B.’ Buckle — no, that wasn’t a human name. Buckley? Buckner.

Whatever it was, they called him Buck, and Buck was watching the news. The marquee was half-hidden by poorly placed captions, but Ferris could see hints of senators’ names and something about a new bill. Buck was grumbling to another patron as if the newscaster had attacked him personally.

“We’ll see how it plays out.” Ferris turned his attention back to the Ghost. “I trust you.”

“Well, obviously.”

“Jesus, I am never going to get this cigarette smell out of this shirt.”

Demos smiled. “Good. Burn it. It’s ugly.”

Before Ferris could ask how a plain white Oxford could possibly be ugly, Buck’s voice rose with another complaint. This one was easy to hear.

“Just what we need.” Buck lifted a hand to the television. “More fuckin’ jews in office.”

Ferris could feel his friend tense beside him. There was one hard breath, his frame lifting from a slouch into a live wire — skin creasing as his fingers curled into fists.

“Not worth it,” Ferris said, but the Ghost was already moving. “Demos, no. Come on—“

The Italian was easily half a foot shorter than Buck, which he rectified by wrenching the man down by the back of his collar. Their eyes were even now.

“Get out.”

Buck’s shoulder jerked in reaction, but somehow this kid had a death grip on the back of his shirt. His expression twitched before settling on a sneer.

“What for?”

Demos hadn’t lost eye contact — hand’t blinked. “For running your fucking mouth.”

“For what, for the fuckin’ je—“

“Say it again and you’re leaving here in a bag.”

Buck’s stare averted to Alonzo, who was still on the phone — oblivious. The man’s sneer settled into a cold, satisfied smile. He knew something that they didn’t.

“You sure about this, kid?” When answered with silence, Buck continued in a snide half-whisper. “Fine. I won’t forget this.”

After a beat, the fist on his collar loosened. Demos released him, making sure his words would be heard above the chatter of voices and the clinking of poker chips.

“Neither will I.”

Shoulders were bumped as the man exited — a brief gust of cold air and a door sliding shut. Demos’ eyes remained on the door, locked hard as if the rusty surface had somehow wronged him. It wasn’t until he heard another voice, one as heavy and broiling as a hot iron, that Demos looked away.

“Did you just do—“ Victor took in one breath. “What I think you did?”

Demos couldn’t see his uncle’s eyes past the glare in his glasses. “I kicked him out.”

There was a pause before Victor lifted a single finger to point at the exit. “Alley. Now.”

Ferris managed to catch his friend’s eyes on his way to the door.

“Demos, you didn’t have to do—“ He shook his head. “Shit like that — I don’t care. It’s okay.”

“No.” The Ghost’s face didn’t falter. “It’s not okay.”

Ferris’ reply came too slowly to his mouth. Before he could even speak, he was alone in the gambling den. Voices thrummed and the clinks of glasses and bottles continued. Somehow, through it all, Alonzo was still on the same damn phone call. He would find out, sooner or later.

Ferris sighed, downing the scotch that Demos had abandoned.

The alley outside was chilly, a pocket of stains on concrete and abandoned milk crates. For once, the Ghost was too incensed to feel the chill. Every inch of his skin burned, inflamed by some furnace deep in his chest — and now his uncle was yelling at him.

“Have you lost your fucking mind?” Victor’s breath was visible in the brisk night air. “Do you know how long it took Alonzo to— che cazzo ti prende, he was a fucking IUPA rep!”

“No.” Demos spat. “He was a racist piece of shit.”

His uncle lifted both hands as if begging god for a better nephew. “He can be both fucking things! You need to keep that pride in check. Those are my decisions —  you’re in my crew. Act like a goddamn adult!”

“Well, what about you? What would you have done if it were Harold?”

“The same thing!”

There was a silence between them, both catching their breath. Demos stared, unsure if he’d heard correctly.

“I’d have done the same fucking thing,” Victor said. “That doesn’t mean it’s okay. That doesn’t mean you’re off the hook.”

“Fine.” Demos turned to glare at a wall. “Punish me. But if I see him again I’ll—“

“You will do nothing.” Victor’s hand was a knife, straight and hard and nearly close enough to graze Demos between the eyes. “Nothing without my blessing. Now shut your mouth and go home.”

“But what about the—“

“I swear to god, kid. I will tan your hide raw.”

Finally, Demos quieted. The Ghost was foolish, but not foolish enough to speak another word. Instead, he nodded, then dropped his attention to the ground. He could hear Victor leave, shoes crunching loose gravel followed by the slam of the door.

He knew he should probably go — walk away, try to remember where he parked his car, something. If Victor came back out and saw his face, it was likely he wouldn’t have a face for long. Demos was paralyzed with at least two of the seven sins, heart pounding but feet unable to move. His chest seized when the door cracked open once more.

It was only Ferris.

“Are you all right?”

“Cazzo.” Demos hissed, his hands clawing down his own face. “Sono fottuto. God fucking damnit.”

“I told you, you didn’t have to—“

“Yes I did!” Demos’ eyes were wide, lined with red, with some kind of mania.

The expected retort never came. Ferris pulled his friend in, arms tight over his shoulders. All Demos could feel was a steady, warm surface against his cheek — the texture of that ugly Oxford. It still smelled like cigarettes. His fists finally eased, no longer tight, no longer shuddering.

“Thanks.” Ferris’ single word was partly muffled by the Italian’s dark hair.

Demos closed his eyes. What was it he’d been angry about? Why was his throat so hoarse?

“Mhm,” was all he could reply with.

A ring cut through his thoughts — a phone. It buzzed in his pocket, hauling him back to reality. It was only when Ferris released him that the Ghost realized it was actually cold outside. He cursed at his phone before drawing it to his ear.

“What?”

“Uh.” It was Hassan. “You told me to call.”

Demos exhaled. “Right. Did you get anything?”

“Yes. Can you be here in ten minutes?”

“Ten?” Demos scowled. “What are you, late for an appointment?”

Hassan sighed loud enough for Ferris to hear. “Because I’m from the fucking desert and it’s cold out here. You can come later but I’ll probably be dead.”

“Fine, Jesus. Be there in ten.” With a beep, Demos ended the call. “What a drama queen.”

“Demos. Are you seriously calling another human being a drama queen?”

“Fuck you.”

#

It was a good thing Victor had called off whatever plans he’d had for them. It would have been hard to get away. Another strike of fortune was that Foley Park was only nine blocks away. Their car pulled up alongside the curb by the park entrance. Wet leaves coated the walkway, which was closed off by a single chain.

The vehicle had barely stopped when the side door opened. Hassan slipped into the backseat, sealing himself inside the warm interior and rubbing his hands together.

“Seriously?” Ferris turned in the driver’s seat. “It’s barely below 50 outside.”

Hassan shot him a look. “You may be used to this frozen wasteland, that doesn’t mean I am.”

Before Ferris could finish mouthing the words ‘frozen wasteland?,’ Demos spoke.

“What did you get?”

The Qatari patted around inside his coat for a moment before pulling out a device. It was a cassette recorder — a mini cassette recorder barely larger than a remote control.

“Where the hell did you get that?” Ferris asked. “The Museum of 80’s Garbage?”

“I can throw it out.”

Demos sighed. “Just play it, Hassan.”

There was a click followed by the soft hum of static.

“You couldn’t even do one fuckin’ thing.” Bruno Mariani’s voice came through clearly — as clearly as a voice on a miniature cassette tape could. “A bunch of kids and an old lady. And a guy we already softened up for you? Jesus Christ.”

“You sent a handful of us to interrupt an assault rifle demonstration.” Hassan cringed at the sound of his own voice on tape. “Couldn’t send us before, when they were unarmed? Couldn’t grab them on the way home? Had to send a message, didn’t you? They’re going to figure out it was you.”

There was the sound of Bruno coughing, then clearing his throat. “I don’t give a shit what they know. They can’t prove it. But now those fucking Indians are gonna be armed to the teeth.”

“Oh no, the fight’s even now.”

There was a pause on the tape and Demos could only imagine the expression on Bruno’s face.

“You’re really testing my patience, you know that? If Al didn’t vouch for you—“ Bruno coughed again. “And Sandro never liked you.”

“Well, Sandro is dead.”

“And we’re going to bury the little shit who killed him. The Ghost’ll be a real ghost.”

Hassan’s groan was tinny through the little speaker. “Swear to me you will never go into comedy.”

“Fuck you, raghead.”

The tape clicked off. Demos was silent for a moment, hand drawn to his mouth as he thought.

“Would you consider us even now? For saving your life?”

The Qatari’s chest puffed as he made a wild gesture to the man in the driver’s seat. “He shot me.”

“Well.” Demos waved a hand. “We don’t need to get into who shot who. Are you willing to keep this up?”

“Look — they don’t care if we live or die. They threw us under the… train?”

Ferris leaned into his hand. “Bus.”

“They threw us under the bus. Gave us shit when we survived — I’ll tell you whatever you want if you promise me you’ll at least kill a few of them.”

“I can do that,” Demos said, a little too easily. “I’ve been wondering, though. How did they find out where the demo was?”

“I wanted to talk to you about that, actually. It probably won’t be a surprise, but—“

For the second time that night, Demos’ phone interrupted one of his moments. The upbeat pop ringtone was wildly inappropriate for the situation — and the caller. Demos sighed at the pixelated photo of his scowling uncle before hitting ‘answer.’

“You told me to go home.” Demos’ eyes were locked on the ceiling of the car.

“Oh, did we sign some contract where I’m not allowed to change my fucking mind? Get your asses back here — both of you. Now.”

The call ended before his nephew could reply. He spoke anyway.

“Well. Bye to you, too.” Demos turned back to Hassan, his eyes half-lidded. “We’re going to have to continue this conversation later.”

Hassan shrugged. “Fine. Indoors, this time.”

“Sure, whatever. Indoors. We’ll see you soon.”

With a bit of shuffling around his padded coat, Hassan slid the recorder back into his pocket. The back door opened with a crack.

“Insha’allah.”

They could hear the man shuffling away, cursing at the cold. As Demos mulled over every recorded word he could remember, he noticed the car wasn’t moving. It was still in park.

“Ferris,” he asked. “Why are you doing frowny face?

“I don’t want to work with him.” Ferris folded his arms, leaning back into the seat. “He’s a sex trafficker.”

“We’re not going into business with the guy. We’re using him.”

“It just—“ Ferris rubbed his forehead. “It doesn’t feel right.”

Demos squinted. “Ferris you… literally helped me bury a body like, just the other—“

“I know,” he snapped. “I’m a hypocrite. If I acknowledge my high horse will you just let me brood about this?”

“Brood away,” the Italian replied. He tugged a cigarette from a case, momentarily lighting the walls of the car with his lighter. “But also drive.”

The gear stick clunked as he shifted it back. Ferris sighed, then released the brake.

“Fair enough.”