Fishbones Book I – Chapter 3: Trunk

Posted On June 16, 2021

Illustration by Eyugho

Thirteen had been a defining age for Ferris. It had been the year of his bar mitzvah, his first cup of black coffee, and the first time he’d laid eyes on a dead body.

Southport in winter was heavy with snow, the city lights reflecting neatly off of the iced street curbs. His family had gone to Ristorante Giorgetti for dinner that evening, but at the end of the meal Gino had come to talk to his father. The conversation had taken a serious turn and they’d gone into a back room, leaving his mother to chat with Victor’s wife and Ferris dying of boredom.

This happened a lot.

Sergio was tending the bar for the evening. He was Victor’s son, not old enough to drink but apparently old enough to help others do it. At least the black vest and bowtie helped him look more mature. He leaned over the counter, catching Ferris’ attention.

“Hey, you want a cocoa or something?”

All thoughts of his mother’s stuffy conversation slipped away. This was Ferris’ chance. It was time to be a man.

“Could I—have coffee?”

Sergio did an admirable job of holding down a laugh. “Sure thing.”

With a smile, he prepared the drink in a ceramic mug, then slid it over to the boy. Ferris glanced down to see that there was no cream or sugar in the cup. He paused. Somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to ask for either in front of Sergio. Sugar was for kids. Well, also his dad. Harold’s coffees were practically desserts. Still, Ferris had to at least try. Attempting to look collected, he took a sip.

It tasted like the bottom of a burnt shoe. His face contorted into a forced smile and he ignored the sweat that had formed on his forehead.

“It’s—it’s great,” Ferris said with clenched teeth. “Thanks.”

Sergio only bit back a smile and focused his attention on cleaning the bar.

“You know, I think I saw Rocco wander into the kitchen,” Sergio said. “I hope he doesn’t get fur on anything.”

Rocco was Gino’s fussy white Persian cat. He was only allowed in the restaurant when no customers were present and was most certainly not allowed in the kitchen. Desperate for something to do, Ferris picked up his head.

“Want me to go get him?” the boy said.

“Go for it.”

Zeroed in on his quest, Ferris abandoned his cup of bitter regret and headed toward the swinging kitchen doors.

Ristorante Giorgetti’s kitchen was empty for the night. He crept through, passing spotless steel counters and a row of gas ranges. A flicker of white was the only sign of life, drawing him to peer below a prep table. Sure enough, the cat was settled beneath it. Rocco glanced back at Ferris, unimpressed.

“Come on, boy. You don’t belong in—”

Before Ferris could finish, the Persian darted out into the aisle between stoves. It was only when he reached the doors leading into the alley that the cat stopped. Ferris froze—the doors were wide open.

“N-no, wait!”

Ferris reached, but was already too late. Rocco slipped outside, a pale flash through the threshold. Heart pounding, Ferris rushed out into the alley. The last thing he wanted to do was tell Gino Giorgetti that he’d lost his beloved cat.

It was getting dark earlier now that it was December. Though the streetlights had come on, the driveway was angled, blocking any view of the main road. It was dark, forcing Ferris to strain his eyes in search of the cursed cat.

Finally, he saw it—a stroke of white against the dark of the alley. There was a car parked in front of the service entrance, its trunk cracked just enough to reveal the cat’s tail. Ferris approached with slow steps through the snow, steadying both hands on the trunk before pulling it open. It was only when his eyes focused that he realized it hadn’t been a cat’s tail at all.

The slip of white was a piece of cloth—part of a man’s shirt.

Ferris inhaled sharply. Cold air seared his throat as he staggered backwards. His eyes locked on the pair that were staring back at him, pale and unmoving.

The body in the trunk was bloated and pale gray. Dried, reddish-brown blood was caked on the man’s matted hair and throat. He was still and cold, staring back as if caught in the moment he’d been killed. It smelled terrible, like rotting meat, blood, and bacteria. Ferris swallowed back the bile that wanted to come up the back of his throat. His heart knocked around in his chest, pulse wild, preparing him for the run of his life. He took one more step backwards before a gloved hand clamped over his mouth.

“Don’t scream,” came a stern, calm voice.

Ferris quickly nodded in response.

The hand paused, then let go. A figure stepped around him and slammed the trunk shut. The white, gazing eyes were gone, though Ferris could still see them clearly in his head. What had once been a living person was now decomposing in the trunk of that car. The corpse had locked its gaze on him, eyes glazed and accusing. Ferris clenched his fists to keep his hands from shaking. The man finally turned around, staring down at Ferris with an unreadable expression.

“Mr. Giorgetti—” Ferris finally found his voice. He was the man Demos called Uncle Victor.

The man folded his arms, leaning back onto the trunk of the car. “Ferris.” He adjusted his glasses. “You don’t like upsetting others, do you?”

Ferris was silent, only shaking his head.

“You wouldn’t want to frighten your mom or dad, right?”

He shook his head again.

“So you understand exactly what you saw in that trunk, correct?”

“Nothing,” Ferris said, his tone flat.

The corner of Victor’s lip quirked, a slight smile. “You’re quick.”

Ferris didn’t respond. His heart was still pounding in his ears. Victor reached forward to put a hand on his shoulder. Ferris almost flinched, but stopped himself.

“You have to promise me that you’ll never tell anyone.” The hand on his shoulder tightened. “Not Demos, not even your dog. You got me?”

“Yes.”

Victor sighed, then lowered his voice. “If it makes you feel any better, he deserved it.”

Ferris nodded, pretending to understand. Victor was friends with his father. It had been that way as long as Ferris could remember—house visits, dinners, drives. They were friends.

If they hadn’t been—

His next breath shuddered as it filled his chest. What would Victor have done? Would Ferris have ended up just like that body—pale and rotting in the trunk of a car?

“Get back inside, you’ll catch a cold.” Victor gestured toward the entrance.

“Okay.” Ferris stepped away slowly, taking a moment before actually walking properly. He avoided any second glances at the car, keeping his eyes straight ahead.

Victor watched until he was out of sight, then patted his coat pocket for a pack of cigarettes. Tugging one out with his teeth, he cupped his hand to light it. Behind him, perched on the car trunk, Rocco began to clean his ears.

Victor clicked the lighter shut.

“This is why you’re an indoor cat.”

#

Everything was dark. It took Ferris a moment to realize that a simple solution would be to open his eyes. He squinted. The sun was bright on the snow, burning his eyes as if he were staring into a light bulb. His pupils adjusted, shrinking back within his irises. When he looked around, all he could see was a massive field of snow and a grouping of trees on the horizon. They were white birch—crooked, skeletal hands reaching up out of the earth.

Somehow, in spite of the snow, the air wasn’t cold. As he trudged through the snow, his long, red scarf trailed along behind him. The crunching of his footsteps was the only thing he could hear.

As he walked, he noticed a portion of snow that rose up and down—breathing. The white pile shifted, then sat up straight. It was an ivory cat. Its ears twitched and it sniffed the air before pouncing off through the snow.

Ferris followed, jogging after it at a flimsy pace. He stumbled, not used to running through thick snow. His breath came up short, puffing into the air as the cat ran faster—

—and disappeared.

He stopped, panting and staring down at the empty patch of snow. Before he could question the strangeness, liquid started to bubble up from the same spot. It was red—dark red. He narrowed his eyes at the growing pool, taking a step closer.

Something appeared to be surfacing. Red trails seeped away from its features until he saw two white eyes and a swollen, pale face—blood, it was blood. Ferris’ breath caught and he staggered back. The corpse pulled itself out, clawing the surrounding snow in a stiff, exaggerated effort. Blood stained the white as it dragged itself closer. Ferris was frozen. His pulse began to echo in the back of his head. He opened his mouth, but hands reached for him before he could make a sound. Tight, dead fingers grasped his legs and he slipped backwards into the snow with a shout.

Ferris’ body tensed before he realized—he was in his bed. Taking in sharp breaths of air, noticed that he’d been gripping the sheets. His knuckles were white from holding too hard and his skin was burning.

For a long time, he couldn’t move. The fear was holding him down, sitting on his chest and paralyzing him to the tips of his fingers. Finally, he managed to put his hand over his mouth. Stanley was still sleeping on the end of his bed, curled up and unaware of the nightmare. It was only a dream—one he’d had many times before.

He couldn’t get those eyes out of his head. Two years later, he still had a vivid memory of them. His stomach tightened. Patting the nightstand, he grabbed the frames of his glasses, then stood.

The bathroom light turned on with a click. Ferris looked at himself in the mirror, not at all pleased with the battered face that looked back. He twisted the faucet handle, cupping his hand underneath the running water and touching it to his jaw and neck. His skin still felt too hot, his stomach too tight. There wasn’t anything he could do or anyone he could tell. He could only hope the memory would someday fade.

He never wanted to see those eyes again.

#

Demos was not good at math. He excelled at cooking, or as he liked to put it, the culinary arts. He also had a wonderful singing voice, an impeccable sense of fashion, and the devastating inability to comprehend simple numbers. Ferris, on the other hand, could neither cook, sing, nor dress himself in anything but forgettable combinations of jeans and sweaters. He had, however, been banned from participating in the school’s jellybean jar contest. Apparently counting cubic centimeters per gallon while accounting for bean surface irregularities was “cheating.”

For this reason, he was seated on Demos’ bedroom floor, surrounded by scattered worksheets and notebooks that had never been opened. They had an approaching midterm and, once again, Ferris was Demos’ only hope.

“Multiply 1/2 to row three and add it to row two,” Ferris said. There was an open book in his lap, a calculator resting on top of the pages.

Demos presented his own calculator. “Is this right?”

“Yes,” Ferris said. “For once.”

The room was silent for a minute; only the sound of pencils scratching on paper could be heard. Though they were working, the air was as tense and stale as an interrogation room. They spoke in brief questions and single-word replies, otherwise silent.

The silence was maddening. Without noise, without a distraction, all Ferris could think of was his classmate’s voice.

“The car chased them down.”

Ferris had tried, and failed, four times to ask his friend about it. He took a breath, opened his mouth, then closed it. Five times. His eyes fell back to the calculator.

No, this was stupid.

Ferris straightened himself and spoke. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

Demos picked up his head. “Tell you?”

“We’re not kids anymore,” Ferris said. “We need to talk about this.”

“Aw.” Demos tapped his pen against his smirk. “Are you confessing your love for me?”

“I’m serious. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

At this, Demos’ expression soured and he averted his eyes. “I really don’t.”

“So you’re telling me that it’s a coincidence that those guys are in the hospital?”

“What guys? I didn’t hear about that.” Demos’ voice grew softer with every word, farther away, falling.

“What’s wrong with you?” Ferris’ eyes narrowed. “I thought we were friends. Why are you lying to me?”

“Just drop it. It’s not what you think.”

Ferris took in a sharp breath. It was those late-night meetings in hushed voices, the body in the trunk, the dead eyes that still followed him in his sleep, that voice, again, whispering, “The car chased them down.” There was nothing else it could be. He knew what it was—what it had always been.

“How fucking stupid do you think I am?” Ferris said. “You’d have to be blind not to realize that your family is in the mafia!”

Something snapped behind Demos’ eyes. He stared back, his expression unreadable, his body stone-still. The room froze along with him, dead quiet and cold. There was something haunted in his gaze, in his single, shuddering breath.

Demos made to stand.

There was a slap as Ferris caught his wrist, fingers tight. He couldn’t leave—not like this.

“Why?” Ferris said. “Why can’t you just tell me the truth?”

“Because—” Demos’ features weakened. “You’re my only friend.”

Ferris could only stare. His fingers opened, freeing his friend’s wrist. Demos kept his eyes averted, then swallowed. They were quiet for a moment.

“What?” Ferris asked.

Demos’ face had reddened and he drew his hand to the back of his neck. “I didn’t have a lot of friends in Italy. They all knew,” he said. “But here, nobody really knows. They think it, but they don’t know.”

Ferris said nothing.

“I didn’t want you to get scared,” Demos said. “I didn’t want you to leave.”

“But,” Ferris said, “you’re my only friend, too.”

The room fell silent. Both boys dared a glance at one another.

“Oh my God,” Demos said. “We’re pathetic.”

Ferris clamped his fist over his mouth, fighting the tremble in his shoulders. It was no use. He and Demos only lasted a moment before bursting into laughter. It was the best kind of laugh; the kind that made you red, that hurt every corner of your face, that ached deep down but, somehow felt so good. The sound carried out of the room and into the hall, inciting an angry call from Victor.

“I don’t hear studying!”

“Sorry!” Demos called back. He’d regained control of himself. The room was quiet once more and both he and Ferris glanced at one another. That was right—this wasn’t over. There was still that question in the air, the answer Ferris hadn’t gotten.

“I promise I won’t be scared,” Ferris said, “if you promise to tell me the truth.”

Demos looked down at his hands. He thought for a moment, his eyes still as he willed himself to reply. Finally, he picked up his head.

“Okay.”

Demos spoke. He spoke, and didn’t stop speaking until everything he knew was on the table. On the canvas was the hierarchy, strokes painted in black, lines leading higher and higher to a single man at the top—his grandfather, Gino. There was a line of men, of greed, of territories marked in red. Hands exchanging money, policemen pocketing bribes, and a trail of destruction marked the wake of the Giorgetti empire. It had been built with blood, fear, and sacrifice, leaving Gino with a world of power in his fist.

“And it was Nicky,” Demos said. “He ran them over with his car. He works for Uncle Victor.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Demos said. “You promised you wouldn’t be scared.”

“I’m not scared.” He shook his head. “It’s just—it’s a lot.”

It was a lot. Ferris had spent his entire life in the dark, an opaque wall between him and this world. Demos, it seemed, had no such wall. There had been no fear in his voice, no guilt. He was a part of this.

He wanted this.

But Ferris wasn’t sure if he wanted this. He wasn’t sure if those boys deserved to be in the hospital, if it was right for an adult to mow children over with a two-ton vehicle. He didn’t know if that man in the trunk deserved to die, or if it was right for anyone, anywhere, to hold this type of power.

What Ferris did know was that Demos was his friend—his vain, spoiled friend. His only friend. The one he trusted, the one who was there for him, who stood up for him. With Demos, he never had to pretend to be someone else. He could be as studious and boring as he wanted and Demos would still be there, through every second of it.

If Ferris was sure of anything, it was that he didn’t want that to change.

“Yeah,” Demos said. “So—”

“So pick up your calculator and finish the question.”

“I—what?”

“Oh, sorry,” Ferris said. “Did you think this confession would get you out of math homework?”

There was a hint of a smile in the corner of Demos’ mouth. The tension in his eyes was gone, replaced by something warmer.

“Okay. Whatever you say.”

“Good. Now multiply E and D again—and get it right this time.”

Demos returned to his scratch paper, finger tailing down the page until he found the problem in question. It was the first time Ferris had ever seen him look pleased to do schoolwork.

“I’ll try my best, but—” Demos said. “But no promises.”

Ferris watched him for a moment. Trying his best—it was all either of them could do. But at least, after everything, they would be trying together.

Ferris looked back down at his notebook. “That’s good enough for me.”