Fishbones Book II – Chapter 35: Daydream

Posted On November 20, 2020

It was snowing outside and the bed was still warm. Demos woke slowly and, for the first time in a long time, was glad he wasn’t in his own room. It wasn’t a dingy motel or a stranger’s apartment. He hadn’t opened his eyes to an unfamiliar back, to some man whose name he’d forgotten. It was a face he knew better than his own, a smell he used to miss—that damn bookstore smell that he complained about but quietly longed for. The scent was wrapped around him—in the duvet and on the pillow, heightened by the warmth of the other body against his own.

Ferris hadn’t woken yet, still lying motionless on his side. He was a heavy sleeper, the opposite of Demos. The kind that wouldn’t budge in a thunderstorm, that would be easy to murder in his sleep. That wouldn’t notice if Demos kissed the spot between Ferris’ eyes that he always rubbed when he had a headache. Demos left that kiss, pushed some hair from that forehead, and began the internal debate of ‘Should I’ or ‘Should I not’ get out of bed.

On one hand, the room was chilly and Demos’ current position under the covers was very warm. He could probably lie there all day, drowsily absorbing his partner’s heat and taking in the texture of his skin and hair with light traces of his fingers. On the other hand, he had wanted to cook breakfast. He had made breakfast for Ferris before, but this would be different. This would be one of those “the next morning” breakfasts, a silly thing he’d daydreamed about for years. For some reason.

Demos took one last look at his still very asleep partner, then slipped out of bed to wash up. Ferris didn’t stir. Of course.

The moment the bedroom door opened, Demos was greeted by Stanley. The poor dog had been shut out of the room all night and the emotional distress was written all over his lopsided face. He chased Demos’ ankles, turning in circles until his bad behavior was rewarded with a few pats.

Seamus wasn’t home that morning. It was one of those brunch shifts, the ones where he mixed more Bellinis and Bloody Marys than there were stars in the sky. He and Ferris still hadn’t gotten around to telling Seamus about their relationship. Demos knew exactly how that conversation would go and was hoping to spare his partner for as long as possible.

It was strange, really; Seamus was at work at Ristorante Giorgetti while Demos had slept in and was thinking about alcohol. Demos decided not to think too hard about it as he made his way to the kitchen.

He was grateful for the set of Miyabi knives he’d sent over back when Ferris had first moved in. As promised, Ferris hadn’t seemed to touch them. Though it was probably less of the promise and more the fact that Ferris didn’t need hand-honed Japanese steel to make sandwiches or whatever it was he considered “cooking.”

Soon the small kitchen was filled with the sound of a churning coffee grinder and the click click click of the gas stove lighting up. There were just enough eggs left in the fridge for a frittata. Anything more complex would require a trip to the grocery store, one that Demos wasn’t willing to make in this weather. His hand paused over a slice of bread before he glanced down at the pug by his feet.

“What do you think, Stan?” Demos asked. “Would heart-sharped toast be too gay?” The dog whined and Demos sighed in return. “Yeah, okay. Maybe next time.”

He could save that for an anniversary or something later down the road when it would be too late for Ferris to leave him. The Moka pot began to gurgle and the scent of strong, hot coffee drifted through the apartment. Just when Demos’ domestic fantasy began to hit its peak, his phone rang. He read the name across the screen and let out a slow breath. Uncle Victor.

“Hey, Uncle Vic.”

“Where the hell are you? Did you see the news?”

“No. I’m at Ferris’ place.” It was a good thing they’d been friends for years and that was a perfectly normal answer.

“Well, grab a paper or something. It’s on the front page,” Victor said. “Then get over here. Now.”

Demos could hear the clink of plates and the low chatter of the brunch crowd in the background. “Yeah, sure.”

Victor hung up the moment Demos said “sure.” Demos swallowed. News. There was news. Though his uncle had given no indication if it was good or bad, his tone was clear. It was important. Time to go find a paper.

The apartment door cracked open enough for Demos to peer out into the hall. There was nothing at the foot of the door. That was right—he’d forgotten that Ferris had canceled his subscription. A line about monthly fees and it being “better for the environment.” Or something. Demos glanced down the hallway to see a freshly delivered Sunday edition of the Southport Daily one door down. Might as well. He already had a dumptruck full of felonies under his belt and stealing a newspaper was a misdemeanor, at best.

Demos waited until he was back in the kitchen before rustling it open to view the front page.

MAYOR APPOINTS SPD’S 38^TH CHIEF OF POLICE

Demos’ hands crinkled the edges of the paper and his pulse skipped as he scanned the article for a name. There it was, the second line in: Seong-min Lee.

A weight collapsed from his shoulders; his body felt like it might float away. Finally. He read the sentence twice, then three times, just to make sure. This was it—this would change everything. Or rather, it would make sure nothing changed. Once again, the Southport chief of police was in their pocket. Only this time, it wasn’t with blackmail. This time, he was—well.

He was a “friend of the family.”

Demos drew a hand to his forehead. “Oh, thank fucking God.”

“For what?” came a groggy voice from the bedroom door. Ferris. He was still disheveled from bed, only half-dressed and half-awake.

“They did it.” Demos presented the newspaper with both hands. “It’s Lee.”

Ferris made a semi-conscious attempt at a smile. “No, you did it.”

“Yeah, I was stuck in bed for a month after I fell down a bunch of stairs. I didn’t do anything.”

“It was your idea, idiot,” Ferris said. He’d made his way into the kitchen, nudging the newspaper aside to give Demos a kiss on the forehead. The three inch difference in their heights made it embarrassingly easy. Demos fought the heat in his face.

Ferris paused. “Wait. Did you steal that paper from—?”

“So. You run out of shirts or something?” Demos said before he could finish. It was a fair question as Ferris was wearing a pair of jeans and not much else. It wasn’t a complaint, but it could at least save him a lecture on “respecting his neighbors.”

“I smelled coffee,” Ferris said with lifted hands. “But fine, I’ll go finish up.”

Demos stopped him by the arm. “No, no. This is okay—you can have breakfast like this. But we’ll need to eat fast.”

“Why? It’s the weekend.”

Demos had already turned back to the counter, slicing the frittata into wedges and pairing it on a plate with roasted vine tomatoes and regular-shaped toast. “Uncle Vic wants me at the restaurant. You know how he gets when I’m late.”

“Right, right.”

Demos glanced up. It was a nice view: Ferris in a pair of hastily buttoned pants, pouring coffee, hair stuck up in the back and eyes barely cracked open. Demos’ eyes lingered for a moment and all he could think of was how long he’d wanted this. To have spent the night, the whole night, together. Then the morning after. It was real now.

He didn’t have to daydream anymore.

#

By the time they arrived at the restaurant, the brunch crowd had been mostly unseated by customers who’d arrived for lunch. One thing after another. Since receiving their star, it seemed there was never an empty seat in the restaurant. Seamus was at the bar, mixing one last mimosa with a brilliant smile on his face.

“Hey, Fer,” Seamus said. “Watch this.” In one hand was a champagne flute, its stem gripped lightly between his fingers. The other held a bottle of Prosecco. With a flick of his wrist, he flipped the glass, catching it in his palm before filling it halfway. Nothing broken. Nothing spilled.

Sergio was leaning on the bar, mesmerized. “You weren’t kidding when you said he was good,” he said to Ferris. “Look at him.”

Ferris was staring as well, brow knit as if he were looking at an abstract painting. “I had no idea he could do that.”

“Ghost,” Victor called from the kitchen doors. He gestured backward with his thumb. “Office.”

Demos slipped from the bar, leaving Ferris and Sergio fixed in bewilderment at Seamus’ performance.

When Demos entered the office, Victor was already seated behind the desk. Demos’ eyes fell on the wide, sturdy desktop and could feel a frantic blush rising in his face. That night—it had been only a week ago. He cleared his throat and tore his eyes from the desk, shifting his focus to his uncle.

Victor gestured for Demos to sit. “Let me ask you something.”

Demos took a seat in one of the two wingback chairs facing the desk. He didn’t speak, only keeping his eyes on his uncle.

“How long have you been on my crew?” Victor asked.

Demos only had to think for a moment. “Five years.” Had it really been that long? He’d started near the end of high school. Everything had been so different back then.

“Five years.” Victor leaned back in his chair with a creak of leather. “Five years and you’ve never asked about being made. Some of us are starting to wonder if you even want to be.”

“But my father wasn’t Italian,” Demos said. It stung to say those words, to admit it. In the old days, one had to be full-blooded to even dream about being made. Things had changed. Now, it only took one parent to qualify. An Italian father—one Demos still didn’t have.

Even now, he wasn’t good enough.

Victor only snorted. “That man hasn’t been in your life for over a decade.” There was the metallic clink of a lighter as Victor lit a cigarette. Smoke rose slowly in the small, windowless room, drifting under lamplight. “As far as we’re concerned, you don’t have a father.”

The skin up Demos’ arms prickled. It reached all the way to his chest, leaving a hot stitch in his heart. “What are you saying?”

“This thing—the chief of police.” Victor slipped the lighter back into his suit pocket. “You did good on this, Ghost.”

Demos said nothing, ignoring the burn that was spreading up his fingers, the hot pulse rushing through his entire body.

“We’re opening the books,” Victor said. “There’s a spot, if you want to earn it.”

Demos was glad he was sitting. The words hit him like a truck. Words he never thought he’d hear. A spot—a spot for him to earn. Even with all his flaws, the ones he could change and the ones he couldn’t. Even with all this, there was a spot for him.

Gina had been right. She’d been right about everything. All the torture Victor had put him through, all the grunt work and verbal abuse—all of it had brought him here. Here, steps from being made, where nobody could cry foul. Nobody could say he didn’t deserve it. His heart felt as if it might swell straight out of his chest.

But he had to earn it. That meant a hit. Taking someone’s life in order to start his own.

“I’ve done hits before,” Demos said as calmly as he was able.

Victor tapped his cigarette in the glass ashtray. “And how many of those were sent down from me?”

Demos didn’t have to do any mental math to come up with an answer. He averted his eyes, lifting his hand to make a plain circle with his fingers. Zero. At this point, he couldn’t even remember how many men he’d killed. But it had always been his own vendetta, his own objective. There hadn’t been a single life he’d taken with an actual order to do so.

“Right,” Victor said. “So let’s make this official.”

Demos looked back up. “I’m ready.”

“You missed Sal’s funeral, but there’s something else you can do for him.”

Demos swallowed. He knew where this was going; he hoped he knew. There was no target that could make this moment more perfect. None that would bring him more satisfaction. His hand clenched on the arm of the chair.

“You’re going to leave this restaurant.” Victor’s eyes were locked on him, making sure Demos took in every word. “And you’re not coming back until Aldo DeSimone is dead. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” Demos said. He could see that stairwell, feel the ghosts of a dozen bruises and broken ribs. He remembered how the edge of each hard stair felt on his body and the sound of Aldo’s voice, inches from his face. The burn that had spread up his limbs now consumed him from the inside out.

Demos stood, making his way to the office door. His hand stopped on the knob and he glanced back at his uncle, gaze as steady as it had ever been. “Perfectly.”

And the door clicked shut behind him.