Book II – Chapter 26: Birthday

Posted On July 13, 2020

Illustration by Eyugho

“You’re sure you can’t come?” Ferris said. “Demos is going to be pissed.”

He was ruffling his dark hair with a towel, freshly dressed. His shirt sleeves were stuffy, sticking to his still-damp arms. Ferris always felt too warm after a shower.

Seamus shrugged. “He’ll live.”

“But it’s his birthday.”

“I told him I’ve got work. And I don’t get off until three.”

Ferris exhaled, amazed he couldn’t see his own breath. “I thought you asked for the night off. This is the ninth day in a row you’ve had work — and some of them were two shifts.”

Seamus rubbed his face. He had the look of someone who’d worked nine days in a row. The Brit had developed dark circles under his eyes. For once, they weren’t from being punched. There was something weak about his gaze, as if his eyes couldn’t open all the way anymore.

“It’s fine. I’ve got decades of doing fuck all to make up for.”

Ferris frowned. The towel bunched in his hands.

“You don’t have to prove anything.”

“I do, actually.” Seamus tugged on a sock, letting the elastic snap. “I can’t lose this job — I want to contribute. I want to be worth something. And you—“

Seamus chewed his lower lip. “You were proud of me.”

“I still am. But they’re taking advantage of you.”

“Oh, you’re one to talk. I’ve seen you get one fuckin’ text and then stay up at that laptop all night. And you’re not even hourly.”

Ferris’ face was already warm, but the accusation made it worse. “I— it’s important.”

“So’s your sleep.”

“Says the guy who calls me at 4 AM to pick him up from a police station.”

Seamus wagged his finger. “Now that’s important. Being there for your mates.”

“Which is why you’re not coming to Demos’ birthday.”

The Brit finished tying his shoes with an aggressive flourish, as if he wanted to slam a door but laces were the only objects within reach.

“Let it go, Fer.”

“We’re not done talking about this — and speaking of my laptop, you’ve been using it without asking again.”

Seamus gave a curt laugh. “And what makes you think I’ve been using it?”

“You Googled ‘do horses know they’re racing,’” Ferris said. “And ‘what do Americans think fanny means.’”

“Could’ve been anyone.”

Ferris pinched the bridge of his nose, bumping up his glasses in the process. At least it wasn’t pornography this time.

“Okay. We’ll — we’ll finish this later. I’m going to be late.”

Seamus gave a half-smile. “Go on, then. Tell him I said ‘hi.’”

“I’ll tell him you’re dead. It’s the only way he won’t be mad at you.”

#

It was only natural that Demos’ birthday celebrated his favorite things — the restaurant, and himself. A ‘closed for a private event’ sign hung on the entrance to Ristorante Giorgetti. Normally, no fine dining establishment would dare close their doors on a Saturday evening, but it was anything for Gino’s grandson. Ferris would have called his friend spoiled, but Demos was doing all the cooking.

Where Ferris would have opted to feed two dozen people by picking up a phone, Demos had no trouble preparing dinner for an entire party. He had worked, on and off, in the restaurant since high school. Ferris had, as well, but it was less ‘cooking’ and more ‘washing dishes.’ The Italian enjoyed having an entire professional kitchen to himself, almost as much as he loved showing his work off. Only one person was ever allowed to assist — his grandfather.

Ferris prodded the last bite of the Demos’ torta caprese with his fork. There had been so much food — risi e bisi, white asparagus, and baccalà alla vicentina. This last piece of cake would probably kill him. Maybe it would be worth it.

“You’re not going to finish?” Demos sounded pained. “You hate it.”

“It’s the best fucking cake you’ve ever made. I’m just trying to figure out if it will fit inside me.”

“You say it’s the best cake every single year.”

“It’s true.” Ferris gave his friend a glare. “Don’t let it get to your head, birthday boy.”

Demos gave his best, insufferable smile. “Too late.”

He knew that Ferris wasn’t overly fond of sweets, and adjusted the recipe each year to make it more appealing. Everything was intentional — this time he’d included espresso powder. Ferris would never know.

“Sorry, by the way,” Ferris said. “That Seamus couldn’t make it.”

“It’s okay. He’s never really sat right with the family — said he feels out of place.” Demos swirled his wine, watching it coat the walls of the glass. “But you should still tell him I was furious.”

“He’s been working really hard. Like he’s trying to make up for his entire life.”

Demos looked up from his glass, his eyes set. “Look out for him, okay? I don’t want to see him burn out.”

“I’m trying.”

A stocky hand came from nowhere to ruffle Demos’ hair. It was Nicky.

“Thanks for the baccala, kid.” Nicky’s New Jersey accent was as thick as ever. “You made it just for me, right?”

The man’s thin, wavy hair had begun to gray over the last few years — this included the uneven stubble across his jaw. Even so, there was still a certain vigor behind his grin.

Demos smoothed back his hair. “Always, Nicky.”

“Tanti auguri!”

Another figure approached. There was no hair rustling from Gino, only a quiet hand on Demos’ shoulder.

“Our car is here,” Gino said. “Vieni con noi?”

“I’m going to stay a bit longer, Nonno. I’ll clean up here.”

Ferris remained silent. This meant he would be cleaning up, too.

“We’ll see you at home.” Gino kissed his grandson’s cheek. “Buon compleanno.”

Demos returned the gesture. “Dormi bene.”

Once Gino was gone, it didn’t take long for the rest of the family to make their way out. Midnight had passed, and only Sergio and Alonzo remained. The former had been kind enough to close down the bar, but Ferris had a feeling that the latter had no intention of cleaning. Alonzo was taking his time with one last glass of wine. Ferris side-eyed the older man before returning to the table he was wiping down.

“The hell does he want,” Ferris said under his breath.

Demos shrugged as he stacked plates. “Maybe he likes watching me clean.”

“It is a pretty rare sight.”

“You can’t be mean to me on my birthday, Fish.”

Ferris picked up a chair to set upside down on the table. “Sorry, it’s past midnight. You’re not special anymore.”

“I’m always special.”

“Did you enjoy yourself, at least?”

Demos eyed the smudges on a wine glass before setting it neatly in the bus bin. “This was one of my better birthdays.”

Ferris scoffed. “Have you ever had a bad one?”

“Yeah.” Demos’ eyes dropped, set on the stack of food-stained dishes. “The first one without you.”

It was easy to forget how recently they’d been apart. Ferris had only been back in Southport for a year, though Demos had taken to visiting him in New Haven after their reunion. Each time Ferris had wondered if his friend would be too lazy for college, or if he’d simply have charmed his way through it. It had worked in high school, anyway.

Ferris couldn’t think of the right response — all that came to mind was an apology.

“I’m—“

“Well.” It was Alonzo. “I’d better get going.”

They both turned to look at the man who had approached without their noticing. Alonzo handed his wine glass to Demos — placing it in the bin was clearly beneath him.

“Oh.” Demos’ voice was a rubber band about to split. “Good night, then.”

Alonzo paused, then snapped his fingers. “Ah, I almost forgot. Your birthday present.”

The man reached into his pocket. Ferris almost cringed, but realized it was merely a piece of folded paper. Alonzo offered it to Demos, the note pinched between two coarse fingers. Demos took a sharp breath in through his nose.

“Head on over when you’re ready.” Alonzo pressed the paper into Demos’ hand before his gift could be rejected. “Got something waiting for you.”

Both of Alonzo’s palms were gripping him. Demos fought a shudder, gathering up the will to give a taut smile.

“Thank you, Alonzo.” There was no use in calling him any kind of family endearment. ‘First cousin once removed’ didn’t roll off the tongue. After far too many seconds, Alonzo released him. The man was smiling as he headed toward the entrance. With a click of the door and a terse wave, he was gone.

The corner of Demos’ mouth twitched. The note was in one hand, Alonzo’s wine glass in the other. His fingers tightened on the glass, preparing to hurl it into the door.

“Don’t throw that,” Ferris said. “It belongs to you.”

“I can do whatever I—“

“And then we’re going to be here all fucking night, cleaning up broken glass.”

The Italian growled before stuffing the cup into the bus bin. He mumbled something under his breath about not being a maid and stupid assholes.

“What’s that note say, anyway?” Ferris said.

“I’m guessing it’s a poem about how much he hates me.” Demos opened the crinkled note, squinting at the handwriting. “Oh. It’s an address.”

“Probably the bear pit at the zoo.”

“Hm. It’s in K-Town.”

Ferris slouched. “I’m guessing there’s no point in me lecturing you about how it’s probably dangerous, or a trap, or how we should just head home.”

“Yeah.” Demos waved a hand. “I’m going. So I can at least kill whatever hitman he has waiting for me.”

“Then it would really be the best birthday ever.”

“Get your car. I’m going to grab a piece from the office.”

#

Demos was right. The address was smack dab in the middle of K-Town. The neighborhood was only a few blocks long, consisting mostly of late-night barbecue grills, bars, and song rooms. Only a few streets over, the night air was quiet. Here, it was as bright as day. Light poured from windows and neon signs, their letters sparkling in orange and blue. The sidewalks were crowded, as if an entire district of people hadn’t noticed the time.

The address was underground — a basement beneath an ox-bone soup restaurant. Demos eyed the Korean lettering on the sign, then glanced down at the scrap paper to match the address. This was definitely it. From behind the door they could both hear and feel a muffled bassline. Lucky Noraebang — a karaoke spot.

“Okay, so—” Ferris said. “Probably no bears.”

The rest of the basement hallway was nondescript — bleak, illuminated with flickering fluorescent light. There was no other place it could be.

The room past the door was an entirely different world — clean angles and dark leather. The track lighting was dim, leaving a soft golden glow on the wooden floors. A gaggle of college students bumped Ferris on their way out, all five flushed and laughing. There was a woman at a counter.

“Welcome.” She smiled. “Just the two of you?”

Demos glanced down at the paper once more before returning her smile.

“I believe I’m expected in Room Four.”

“Demos Giorgetti? Of course, right down the hall.”

The black paneled hallway was lined with doors, looking more like a Victorian train car than a basement karaoke joint. Ferris had hoped this would be a dead end — that ‘Room Four’ would have no meaning and it had just been a waste-of-time joke on Alonzo’s part. The hostess, however, had been expecting them. Whatever was in Room Four, it couldn’t be good.

It was easy to find, at least, with a large number 4 etched on a frosted porthole. Demos touched his chest, ensuring the pistol in his jacket was still present. He reached for the door.

“Wait.” Ferris stopped his hand. “Let me.”

Did Alonzo know how to wire a bomb? Surely, he at least knew someone who could. Ferris and Demos hadn’t told anyone where they’d be — Gino would likely find out by reading a headline such as ‘Local idiots found dead in K-Town karaoke explosion.’ This wasn’t how he wanted to go. Without permission, he ushered Demos away from the door with his arm.

“Okay.” He took a breath. “Here goes.”

The door cracked open. Nothing happened. He eased it a few more inches, just enough to peek inside. It was a small room. Couches lined the back walls and some kind of electronic disco light left patterns of pink stars rolling over everything in sight.

“Hi. You Demos?” There was a figure lounging on the couch. It took a moment for Ferris’ eyes to adjust. It was a woman. Her cotton candy hair fell in waves to her collar, stopping just short of a tight black dress.

“Nope,” was all Ferris could think to say.

“Well, is he here?” Her head tilted, leaning into her hand. “Alonzo sent me. Birthday present?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Ferris gave the room one last look-over before holding up a single finger.

“One second.”

He closed the door with a light click, then turned to face his friend. Demos was already reaching into his jacket.

“Who is it?” There was an unsettling, burning look in his eyes.

“There’s—“ Ferris chewed the inside of his lip, thinking. “There’s a woman here for you.”

Demos’ face fell — this meant he wouldn’t get to kill anyone. He closed his jacket with a sigh.

“Well, you’re straight. Just tell her you’re me.”

Ferris choked on his own breath. “What? No. I don’t— no. Can’t you just— I don’t know, try?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Then what the hell are we supposed to do? She’s going to tell Alonzo.”

“I don’t know.” Demos waved a hand. “We can just say I have ED or something.”

“Is that really the kind of rumor you want going around?”

“Better than the truth,” Demos said. “Let’s get this over with.”

With unnecessary flair, the Italian threw open the door.

“Wow,” he said much too loudly. “A beautiful woman.”

Without making eye contact with said woman, he began to search the couch cushions. His hand dipped behind the seating, patting around for anything unusual.

“What a fantastic birthday gift. Incredible.” He was still practically yelling. “I’m so excited have sex with this female person.”

Demos’ knees bumped the floor as he reached beneath the sofa. His face shifted through several different expressions before finally settling on a smile.

“Alonzo is such a great guy.”

He wrenched the listening device free, giving it a brief look-over before crushing it beneath the heel of his shoe. Demos exhaled, then turned his attention to the woman.

“How much did he pay you?” he said, deadpanned.

She hadn’t moved from her spot, still leaning into her hand as if this was something she saw every day.

“Five hundred,” she said.

Demos stood, dusting his hands. The undersides of song room couches weren’t the cleanest of places.

“We’ll double it if you can keep a secret.”

Her brow lifted. “I’m listening.”

Ferris had been standing with his back against the closed door, as if trying to contain Demos’ harrowing impersonation of a straight man.

“My friend here—“ Ferris placed a hand on Demos’ shoulder, as if there was anyone else his friend could be. “Has an issue he doesn’t want the guys to know about.”

“Ah,” she said. “You two are boyfriends, aren’t you?”

Ferris instantly pulled back his hand. “What? No. That’s— why was that your first guess?”

“Intuition.” She shrugged.

“No. No, he’s uh, impotent.”

Her eyes crinkled. “You’re serious?”

“Yes,” Ferris said. “You know how these guys are. With their… pride. He’d never hear the end of it.”

She sighed, then slipped a phone from her purse to look at the time. “Well, my ride won’t be here for an hour.”

Demos tapped the side of his face. “We have the room, right? You sing?”

The woman gave her first smile of the night.

“Yeah, sure.”

The wall-mounted phone by the door was quickly put to use with an order of two ridiculously overpriced cocktails and a bottle of soju. Demos hoped the alcohol would be enough to make Ferris actually sing something. It had worked once before, it couldn’t hurt to try again. The song books were stacked on a low table in front of the couch. They were enormous, larger than phone books and equally as capable of knocking someone unconscious. Only one was in English, the rest labeled in a half-dozen different languages.

“So, Not Demos, you been here before?” the woman asked. She was already flipping through a book.

“Ferris,” he said. “And no, I’m not much of a singer. What’s your name?”

“Olivia.”

“Calling you ‘Olive,’” Demos said, though no one had asked.

Olivia punched numbers into the room’s device with an unsettling fervor. “Call me whatever you want, but I’m singing first.”

“There are three mics in here.” Demos wagged one in his fist. “Like hell you’re doing a solo.”

It was a good thing Demos had destroyed Alonzo’s listening device. A ‘So Emotional’ duet beneath a pink star-streaming disco ball was probably the gayest thing that could have happened in that room. Ferris took a slow drink. It was unsettling, Alonzo’s obsession with this. How far was he willing to go?

Ferris set his drink down, the clink of the bottle overpowered by the two surprisingly powerful voices filling the room. That was right. He’d forgotten that Demos could actually sing. That stupid asshole with his stupid beautiful voice — hadn’t his mother been a singer before she passed? Ferris wouldn’t dare compliment him. The Italian’s ego would likely burst if inflated any further.

“Oh, nice.” Demos had stolen the English language book. “They’ve got ‘I Have Nothing.’”

Ferris folded his arms. “More Whitney?”

“Excuse me,” Demos said. “How dare you.”

Olivia joined in. “Yeah, show some respect.”

“Cool.” Ferris rubbed his temples. “You two just met and you’re already ganging up on me.”

They ignored him, moving on to the next song. Demos was a performer — this was likely the most physical activity he’d be willing to complete outside of a bed. He didn’t waste any time entering in a few favorites from his high school J-rock days. At least Demos’ four years of Japanese classes were useful for something.

After only six songs, the Italian was out of breath. He used his sleeve to brush sweat from his forehead, laughing. Ferris touched his mouth, stifling a smile. It was nice to see Demos happy.

“There’s a better place up the street,” Olivia said. “My friends from class like to go.”

“What are you studying?” Ferris said.

“Going for RN.” She threw up dual horns with her hands. “One year left.”

“Nice. I could never handle being a nurse.”

He paused when he realized Olivia was staring at him. Her brow was knit.

“You know, you two look kind of familiar.” She inched in closer. “You ever been to The Looking Glass?”

Ferris leaned away. “The Looking Glass?”

“Where I work.”

That was it — Ferris remembered. It was the gentlemen’s club where they had found Blakely. It was remarkable that she remembered their faces, especially since they had only been inside for a few minutes. Lingering in a Mariani-owned strip joint would have been a terrible idea.

Ferris froze.

“You said Alonzo sent you?”

“Yeah, he’s a regular.”

His hands wrung together. Why was Alonzo a regular at a Mariani business? Maybe he just liked the place — but it was on the other end of town. Maybe—

“Come on, Fish.” Demos held out his hand. “Sing ‘A Whole New World’ with me.”

Ferris had lost track of how many drinks his friend had consumed that night, but it was enough to induce poor balance. Demos was wavering, catching the back of a sofa to keep himself upright.

“Maybe after one more drink.”

Demos lifted a finger. “Waiter, another drink.”

“There’s no waiter here.”

“Seamus would sing with me.”

Ferris glanced at his watch — Seamus was still working. He would have enjoyed this. The Brit was much better party material and loved both drinking and making a fool of himself. Maybe they could go together next time.

“Aw, my ride is here.” Olivia was frowning at her phone.

“So.” Demos was making an admirable attempt at ‘sober voice.’ “We’re set on the secret, right?”

“I’ll tell him it was the best lay I ever had.”

“Uh, maybe tone it down so it sounds real,” Ferris said.

“Hey, fuck you,” Demos said. “I’m great in bed.”

Olivia shuffled through her purse before pulling out a small white card. She passed it to Ferris, likely because he was the only one with any semblance of hand-eye coordination.

“Give me a call if you want to try that place up the street. But both of you will have to sing.”

Ferris slipped a money clip from Demos’ pocket. He flipped through a number of bills before handing them to her in a neat fold.

“Sure. I’ll remind him when he’s sober.”

“Thanks.” Olivia smiled. “This was fun.”

With that, she was gone, leaving the two alone in the small room. That had gone better than expected. Then again, Ferris had expected to be eaten by bears or die in an explosion. Now all he had to worry about was finding a cab to take his poor friend home.

Demos slumped onto the couch, bumping Ferris’ shoulder with his head.

“Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“I know my birthday is over.” Demos looked up at him. “But will you sing just one song with me?”

Ferris felt warm. He touched his throat, wondering if the alcohol had already gotten to him. Demos was already long gone. Maybe he was drunk enough to not notice if Ferris sang poorly.

“Okay,” Ferris said. “One song.”

Either way, he couldn’t say no to that stupid face.