Fishbones Book II – Chapter 36: Hit

Posted On December 4, 2020

The bodega on the corner of 12^th and 3^rd was not an ideal spot for making private phone calls, but Demos was impatient. The space was cramped, its aisles barely wide enough to fit a single body. Merchandise was stacked, practically to the ceiling, towers of chips and breath mints creating a gauntlet that dared customers to venture through. There was the faint smell of dusty linoleum and cat litter lingering in the air, one Demos would normally gripe about if he hadn’t been so distracted by his phone.

This was his third attempt at making make the call and it was only once he was in line behind an old woman at the register that someone finally answered.

“Hassan, hey,” Demos said. His voice dropped to a library whisper. “You got a second?”

Ferris was glaring at him already. Demos turned away, not having the attention span for both Hassan’s reply and Ferris’ judgmental eyes. Yes, this was a bad place for this call. No, Demos was not about to hang up. He needed to find Aldo.  Aside from texting the man ‘Hey buddy, where’s a good spot for me to murder you tonight?’ Hassan was the second best source of his whereabouts.

Demos’ voice was hushed as their conversation continued. From the corner of his eye he could see Ferris going through his usual stages of giving up, letting out some kind of sigh, and then doing his best to play lookout for whatever stupid thing Demos was doing at the time. Fortunately the senior citizen at the counter didn’t seem to care about his call in the slightest.

“I’ll find out,” was the last thing Hassan said before hanging up. Demos frowned at his phone. That wasn’t an answer.

Ferris looked back over. “What did he say?”

“He’ll find out,” Demos said between his teeth.

The old woman slipped coins into a pouch, one by one, before leaving the counter free.

“Next,” said the man at the register.

Ferris adjusted his glasses. “Maybe this will be a good opportunity for you to learn a little patien—“

“Quiet.” Demos held up a hand—his phone had vibrated. He snapped his attention back to the screen in time to make out a text message.

– Tonight. 88^th and Jackson.

That was all it said. That was all it needed to say.

“North of the river,” Demos said under his breath. He finally glanced over to Ferris. “You’re driving.”

Ferris sighed. “Of course I am.”

#

It wasn’t a long drive to the north side of the city. They had waited until nightfall to make the trip. “Tonight” was vague, but Demos guessed that was as much clarification as they would get. This time, there was no arguing over whether or not Ferris would go. There wouldn’t be ever again. They were no longer a pair of one man trying to protect another. They were partners in every sense of the word, and this time, they were going together.

Jackson Ave was in an industrial district. Towering office buildings had given way to lots filled with shipping containers and construction equipment. Miles of distribution centers and chain link. There were a few other businesses tucked between the warehouses, gentlemen’s clubs and drab bars. But the building on the corner of 88^th and Jackson wasn’t any of these things.

The Alfa Romeo came to a stop at the curb of a dark gas station. Pumps hung loose from the filling stations and weeds had erupted from every crack in the pavement. Faded signs were still plastered on the glass door, advertising a sale that had ended three years ago.

“This is where Aldo is supposed to be?” Ferris muttered.

Demos looked over. “What, you think he deals out of a Papaya King drive-thru?”

“I don’t know. This is kind of sad, even for him.”

“Well, I see two cars and a light. Somebody is in there.”

“And what do we do if there are other people with him?”

“That depends on them.” He glanced over, his eyes softening. “You sure you’re okay with this?”

“I am,” was all Ferris said. He wasn’t making eye contact, only keeping his faraway look on the windshield. There wasn’t any hesitation on his features, no hints of the uneasiness he usually carried with him. Whatever was going through his head, he’d already made his decision.

“Okay.” Demos finished loading the cylinder of his .357, snapping it shut. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” Ferris said. “Sure.”

Once Ferris had slipped a shotgun from the trunk, Demos led him around the side of the dingy building. Much of the snow had melted, leaving rivers of water running down into sewer grates. There was a dim light from somewhere inside, but there was no movement, no sound. Demos glanced through the side door, barely able to see through the grime that had settled over the glass panes.

As he strained to listen, to catch any signs of life, he wondered if he should have waited for this. The heat in his veins had rushed him into action. Much like the first time he’d ever taken a life. Well, three lives. He’d marched into that auto shop with no plan, just a scowl and a revolver, and made it out alive. It had to have been an act of God.

This was crazy, wasn’t it?

Demos’ eyes shifted back to Ferris. He’d been there, too, at the auto shop. He had stayed; he had waited, even after being given explicit instructions to save himself. Ferris had been there for him since day one and was still here at his side. Even now.

As stupid as Demos’ plan of action was, he wasn’t alone. And that was all he needed.

Demos eased the side door open. It didn’t creak—another act of God.

The two slipped in, following the light. The hall opened into the wide space of the convenience store. Freezer doors hung crooked on their hinges. Every shelf had been picked dry, leaving only scattered magazine pages to litter the floor. There it was. The light.

It was an old camping lantern that had been left by the checkout. A figure was seated behind the counter, slouched in a folding chair. Demos could only make out two things: it was the back of a man’s head, and he hadn’t noticed them yet.

Demos lifted his .357 and pulled back the hammer. “Turn around.”

There was no response. The man made no indication he’d heard Demos at all; his silhouette remained seated behind the counter. Demos took in a slow breath. Something was wrong.

Keeping his aim, Demos moved along the length of the counter. Maybe he was asleep. Or maybe—No. He wasn’t asleep. He couldn’t have been, with both eyes wide open and glazed. This man was dead. And he—

Demos knew that haircut. He knew that profile, that nose. He knew this body that was slumped in the metal chair with a wash of blood oozing down the front of his shirt. A chill surged up Demos’ back and every inch of his skin prickled with the tips of a thousand knives.

“Hassan.” Demos stepped backward, staring back at the dead eyes in front of him. He swallowed a chestful of stale air. “Shit. Shit—shit!”

“Turn around,” came a voice from behind them. Demos didn’t have to look to know who it was. He would know that voice anywhere—in a butcher shop, on the street. At the bottom of a stairwell.

The two turned to see Aldo staring back at them, a pistol gripped tightly in his hand. Lou stood beside him with an old rifle.

“There we go.” Aldo was glaring down the length of the handgun. “Nice and easy. Put that shit down.”

There was a lot happening in front of Demos, but there was only one thing he could see. The rifle barrel pointed directly at Ferris’ chest. Something was boiling in Demos’ core. His vision flashed red, heart pounding, fingers ready to pump a hundred bullets into the skull of this man, of this piece of shit, who dared to aim a weapon in that direction.

At Ferris.

But there would be no rage-fueled shooting spree. Unless he wanted to die right alongside Hassan, there was nothing he could do but comply. Demos swallowed, then knelt to lay his .357 on the stained floor. Ferris followed suit.

Aldo smiled. “Good. Hands up.”

Once more, they complied. Demos’ venomous stare had locked back onto Aldo. The edge of his eyelid twitched.

“Yeah, I thought it was a little funny how quick you all got to Six Pines. Not sure how you conned him into being your little rat.” Aldo gestured at Hassan’s corpse with a tilt of his chin. “What did you do, suck his dick?”

Demos’ glare only hardened.

Aldo laughed, baring his teeth. “You must think we’re real stupid—like we wouldn’t fucking notice. And what are you after me, for? Revenge? Well, I’ve got something I want to settle, too.”

When Demos didn’t reply, Aldo’s smile faded.

“Where is he, Ghost?” Aldo asked. “Where the fuck did you bury my brother?”

Demos leered. “Why? You want to join him?”

Aldo moved before Demos could say another word. He had stepped in, not toward Demos, but to Ferris. The grip of his pistol cracked against Ferris’ jaw, knocking him sideways before Aldo slammed him down onto the counter. A web of cracks spread over the glass with the impact. Aldo pinned him with his entire upper body, fist twisted up into his hair and his pistol muzzle pressed flush against his forehead.

Ferris coughed, grimacing against the pressure of the elbow on the back of his neck. Blood leaked onto the cracked counter surface from the corner of his mouth.

“How about this?” Aldo said. “I’ll trade you.”

Demos’ chest tight twisted into itself, each heartbeat painful.

“You tell me where Sandro is.” The gun creaked in Aldo’s grip. “And I’ll tell you where I end up burying this little cocksucker. Sounds fair, right?”

Demos’ vision narrowed to a point, his entire world funneling down to the handgun at Ferris’ head. A pitched ringing filled his ears, muddying Aldo’s voice, drowning out the painful beating of his own heart. Beneath the numb veneer of two steady eyes was a surge, something howling inside him. Frozen air filled his chest in a single breath, one that held deep before escaping his lungs in a gaunt cloud.

“Don’t.” Demos’ voice was low. Cold. From a place that had never felt warmth. It was one word, but it hung between them like cracks spreading over ice.

Aldo pressed the tip of his pistol harder against Ferris’ temple. “Tell me.”

“He’s upstate.” Demos could feel himself talking but couldn’t remember choosing those words. “I can show you where.”

Aldo stared at him for what felt like a long time.

“Fine,” he said. “Show me.”

#

It was almost midnight. In the time it took to cross county lines, the moon had drifted from one end of the sky to another. Demos was driving. His hands were tight on the wheel as he watched the blurred lines of the road whip beneath the SUV. It was Aldo’s car, probably. He hadn’t asked. Ferris was in the passenger seat, dabbing blood from his lip. Every once in a while he would glance over with a look. One that said it would be okay, that they could figure this out.

They had to.

In the backseat sat Aldo and Lou, each of them holding a firearm to the backs of their hostages’ skulls. Demos broke the silence.

“You’re seriously going to hold that to my head for three hours?”

Aldo snorted. “Just fucking drive.”

At some point during the excursion Demos had wondered if rolling the vehicle off the side of the road would be a gamble that could pay off. Probably not. If they survived, Ferris would never let him live it down.

Demos had to scour his memory to remember the exact exit and the seemingly-random side road they had chosen into the deep woods of upstate New York. He was only sure of it when he saw the wide tree stump. That stump—that was where he had stood when he’d shot Sandro in the knee at twenty meters. And that spot between the trees just ahead was where his body had fallen over a rotted log.

Shovels were pulled from the back of the SUV, clattering down onto the frigid ground.

“Dig.” Aldo was still aiming his pistol at Demos’ head. “If you’re lying—“

“He’s here,” Demos said. The air was much colder now than when they had first buried Sandro. Frozen soil was very low on the list of things Demos wanted to dig through. But at the moment, what Demos wanted mattered very little.

There was an uncomfortable silence as he and Ferris tossed soil, re-creating the body shaped hole they’d dug just last summer. Without Ferris saying a word, Demos knew what he was thinking. He could see it in his expression. “I can’t believe I have to dig this fucking hole twice.” Demos looked back with eyes that said “I’ll make it up to you.” Ferris only scoffed.

Hours passed and limbs ached before the dirt gave way to something new—fabric. There it was, hints of the white bathrobe Sandro had been wearing. Only it was no longer white and barely recognizable as a bathrobe. But it was there. The moment they uncovered flesh, Demos grimaced and turned away.

“There,” Demos said. “He’s there.”

Boot soles shuffled over dead grass and twigs as Aldo hurried over. He stood panting at the edge of the grave, then dropped to his knees to look closer. It only took three seconds for Demos to catch his partner’s eyes, then nod from the shovel to the man kneeling beside him. Ferris nodded.

Aldo exhaled. “Sandro—“

A clang echoed through the air as Ferris’ shovel cracked against the back of Aldo’s skull. Demos caught him by the collar, wrenching the pistol from his hand. In a single movement, he swept the weapon backward and pointed it straight at Lou. Before the man could lift his rifle, Demos pulled the trigger. The gunshot shattered the cold air. Lou’s body toppled, hitting the hood of the SUV before falling to a heap on the frozen earth. Blood trailed from the bullet hole between his eyes, dripping onto the dirt without a sound.

The gunshot seemed to snap Aldo out of his daze on the ground. His eyes locked on Demos, or more accurately, on the stolen pistol in his hand. He sucked in a hoarse breath, shoes scraping dirt as he lunged at his target. “You—! ”

A thump of flesh on bone stopped him in midair. Ferris had grappled him from behind, arms wrapped solid over his shoulders—over his throat. Loose soil scattered as they hit the ground.

“Cocksucker?” Ferris said, forcing Aldo’s cheek into dirt and gravel. “That was the best you could come up with?”

Aldo’s heels dug trenches into the ground. He was larger, thicker than the trim figure that was attempting to pin him. His body jerked once—twice, throwing the force of his weight into a single elbow against Ferris’ ribs. Ferris choked out a groan before the two fell sideways, grappling, trailing specks of blood and sending dust and debris into the cold air.

Then, Ferris’ back flattened on the earth with a thud.

“That’s all you are,” Aldo said from above him, each breath stripping his throat raw. His eyes were wide, manic—lined with red. “A cock—“

Aldo’s voice cut as Ferris’ hand clamped onto his throat. Each man was locked in place, hands straining against one another.

“Really? You’re trying to—” Aldo’s throat bobbed against Ferris’ palm as he coughed out a laugh. “—to choke me?”

“No.” Ferris eyes’ tightened. “I’m holding you still.”

“What—“

The gunshot split the clearing with a crack, echoes of the boom vibrating between the trees. The air was silent once more. Whatever Aldo meant to say would never come.

Demos lowered the gun.

With a labored breath, Ferris shoved the man’s body off. Aldo rolled sideways, plunging into the cold, dark pit. He hit the bottom with a thump of bone and dirt, his fall broken by the corpse of his own brother.

Before either of them could speak, Demos was reaching down for his partner’s hand. He eased Ferris upright, then leaned in to touch his face. His eyes tightened at the sight of the cut on his lip.

“Pescetto.” His thumb ran alongside the mark, then pulled back at the touch of blood. “Are you okay?”

Ferris straightened his crooked glasses. “It looks worse than it feels.” He placed his hand over Demos’ knuckles, assuring him with a light grasp of his fingers that it was fine. His eyes trailed over to the body by the car, then back to the grave that now held two corpses.

“Is this hole big enough for three?” Ferris said as he rubbed a spatter of blood from his cheek with the back of his hand.

“It’s going to have to be.” Demos wiped the edges of the pistol with the corner of his shirt before tossing it down on top of Aldo’s lifeless body. It landed with a clatter. “I’m done with this fucking pit.”

Demos was quiet on the drive back. He and Ferris were both in poor shape: sore shoulders, raw palms, and coats stained with cold dirt. There was only one thing left to do: leave Aldo’s car at the gas station, wipe it down, and go home. This time, Ferris was at the wheel. Demos was gazing out the window, his eyes fixed on the distant sky. It was still dark, but dawn was just around the corner.

Ferris glanced over. “You all right?”

“Yeah. I just—I feel like an idiot. I almost got us killed.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I guess. And Hassan is gone. We never got any proof about Alonzo.” Demos’ head bumped the window. “You know he’s in his seventies and he still hasn’t been made? He’s going to hate me even more.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Ferris said. “And hey—“

Demos looked over.

“You finished your hit.” Ferris gave a faint smile. Demos watched him for a moment before returning the look.

“Yeah. That prick—he really loved his brother.”

“Well, they’re back together. At least they have that.”

Demos turned back to the window, making out the shapes of billboards in the distance. He could still smell the dirt on his clothes, still feel the numbness in his fingers from the cold. This hadn’t gone how he’d expected. But then, very little ever did. One thing was true, though—Sandro and Aldo had each other now.

And they always would.