Fishbones Book I – Chapter 4: Robin Hood

Posted On June 29, 2021

Illustration by Eyugho

There was something to be said for after-school activities. Sports could build character and forge friendships. Clubs allowed students to build a laundry list of achievements that all looked quite compelling on college applications. This activity, however, was one that Ferris wouldn’t be putting down on paper. Anywhere.

The Giorgettis often went to the shooting range downtown, but this was the first time that Ferris was joining them. Demos had asked for him to come, “just in case.”

Whatever that meant.

The shooting range was located in the basement level of a large office building. The entrance was nondescript, visible only to those who were looking for it.

“Vic, you brought the kids.” The owner was a Black man in his late fifties who’d lived through Vietnam and had several tattoos to prove it.

 “Hi, Ben,” Demos said. The two exchanged familiar nods—apparently, he came here a lot. Just as Ben began to set out a rifle and a few handguns, Demos stopped him.

“Actually, I have my own now.”

This was received with a smile. Earlier, Demos had boasted about neither reaching the appropriate age for such a possession, nor enduring the half-year wait to get a license. It didn’t seem that anyone present cared.

“What’d they get you, kid? Not a pop-gun, I hope.”

“No.” With an entirely-too-smug smile, Demos pulled a tiny silver and black revolver from its case. “A snub nose—.357 Magnum. Birthday present.”

A snub nose wasn’t a hobbyist’s hunting gun. It was made to be carried and concealed. If someone owned one, they were either a detective or up to no good. Demos was not a detective.

“That’s a nice piece of work. Smith and Wesson? From stingy old Victor?” Ben grinned.

Victor was quick to fold his arms across his chest. “Stingy old Victor got the kid some bonds. The gun’s from his grandfather.”

“Hey, what about him?” Ben asked, jerking a thumb toward Ferris. He’d been silent the entire time.

“We’re going to teach him the basics. Rifle for now,” Victor said.

Ferris, clearly just going along with what was being said, nodded. The hefty number of firearms on the table and in everyone’s hands was new, to say the least.

“All right.” Ben shifted the toothpick in his mouth to the other side. “Take this.”

He passed an unloaded rifle into Ferris’ hands, picking up one of the same model to explain. “This is a standard .22 caliber. This button on the side, that’s the safety. When it’s red, safety’s off. Rule one: always treat a gun as if it’s loaded.”

Ferris looked down at the weapon in his hands. It was lighter than he’d expected and the grip was made of cool, black plastic.

“Rule two,” Ben said. “Never point the muzzle at something you aren’t willing to destroy.”

“I don’t have to fill out any forms?” Ferris said.

Ben laughed as if he’d heard the funniest joke in his life. It took a moment for his frame to stop shaking and for the wheeze to leave his breath. He cleared his throat and the lesson continued.

From there, Ferris was in student-mode as the man explained every aspect of the weapon, from how to load it to what to do if it was jammed. Demos sat by, unable to help but look bored.

“Yeah, so anyway,” Ben said. “Just watch where you’re aiming it. Can’t tell you how many times some asshole was standing around talking to his friends and then blows a hole in the wall. You don’t want to shoot your friend, do you?”

Ferris blinked, struggling to keep his hand from twitching on the rifle stock. “No.”

Ben and Victor finally left the boys to themselves in the next room. The boys loaded ammo for Ferris’ rifle, silently counting as they filled the magazines. Golden metal gleamed under fluorescent lighting as dozens of rimfire cartridges splayed over the dark table top. The ammunition clicked as it went in, leaving their fingers stained with dark smudges.

“How long have you been doing this, anyway?” Ferris asked, setting a full magazine to the side.

“Legally?” Demos said.

“At all.”

“Well, Dad showed me how a pistol worked when I was five. I guess he didn’t want me to find his stash and accidentally kill myself—or him.”

“That’s fair, I guess.”

“He was weird.” Demos went quiet. He didn’t speak of his father often. The last bullet snapped into place and Ferris set the packed magazine at the end of his row.

“Ready?” Demos handed over earmuffs and plastic eye protection.

“Honestly?”

“You’ll be fine,” Demos said, giving his friend a smile as he slid the eyewear behind his ears. “Just remember what Ben told you.”

Ferris nodded. The last few words out of Demos’ mouth were muted from the ear coverings he’d put on, but he got the general idea. They went onto the shooting line, closing the door behind them. Victor was already going strong, the automatic pistol in both hands firing a half dozen holes into the paper target ahead of him. Even with the headset, it was loud.

Ferris’ palms hadn’t stopped prickling. He loaded the rifle, cocking it before pulling it up to aim. It was difficult to keep his hand steady and the small sight wouldn’t sit perfectly still beneath the bull’s-eye. When would he ever have to use this weapon? If the time came, would he actually have it in him to shoot a human being? He wasn’t even sure if he’d have the heart to shoot a squirrel.

On his left and right, the sound of heavy gunshots pierced the air, echoing despite the thick muffs covering his ears. He didn’t want to imagine the noise without them.

He took in a breath, then tugged the trigger. The kickback was slight and the bullet punctured the target with a sharp snap. Squinting, he looked past his glasses to see where it had hit.

It was, more or less, in the right area. It was no bull’s-eye, but at least he hadn’t missed the paper entirely. Ferris ignored the sweat behind his ears. It was strange, something he hadn’t expected. It had felt—

It had felt kind of good.

He closed his eyes. This was fine, it was normal. Shooting was a sport—a hobby. Almost every person on the range was there for fun. Enjoying a rifle, just a little, did not make him a serial killer.

Right?

Ferris opened his eyes and drew the rifle back up to fire once more. He could think about that later.

When he had emptied the first magazine, he glanced around the short wall to see how Demos was doing. The boy had already pulled in his target, having emptied over two dozen bullets into it. The result was strange. Instead of thirty little holes scattered about the paper, they were all neatly clustered together in the dead center. Demos held the target up, looking at Ferris through the golf ball sized opening. He winked.

What an asshole.

“Are you winking?” Ferris said. “It’s hard to tell with all that hair over your eye. You do have two eyes, right?”

There was that smug grin again. Of course, Demos hadn’t heard his friend’s muttering through the muffs and simply smiled before turning back to reload his revolver.

Soon, they reconvened in the back room. Ferris removed his eye protection, letting his skin get some fresh air. He couldn’t believe that he was tired; all he’d done was pull a trigger. His lungs were weary and his skin was damp. He exhaled, tugging the headset down to rest around his neck.

“You’re doing pretty well,” Demos said, drinking from a bottle of water.

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m serious. A lot of guys go all crazy cop-movie mode and don’t even bother aiming.”

Ferris grabbed a broom for the discarded shells. “I hadn’t realized you were that good.”

“You sound bothered.”

“I guess I shouldn’t be, as long as I’m on your side.”

“There you go,” Demos said with a smile.

“So, you ready to go home?” Ferris said.

Demos didn’t answer. He was staring over Ferris’ shoulder, his expression hard to read.

“Demos?” Ferris hesitated before turning to see what his friend was staring at.

A young man was at the counter, buying a few boxes of cartridges. A steaming paper cup was in his left hand. His skin was fair and worn, and he seemed perpetually flushed over his cheekbones.

“Who is that?” Ferris said.

As if he could feel the teens’ eyes, the man looked over. His hard features contorted to form something similar to a grin.

“Well,” the stranger said, walking over through the doorway to the back room. He looked over the two, noticing that Ferris had a broom. “If it isn’t Ghostie. And his skivvy, I guess.”

“Hi, Bob,” Demos said, his tone curt.

“I told you not to call me that,” the man said with a snap. His accent was thicker when he was angry. Ferris had heard of him before. His given name was, unfortunately, Brian O’Brien. Ferris glanced between the two. The tension was thick enough to cut with a machete.

“So, you done for the day? Shame.” Brian smirked. “Guess I can’t whip you in another bet.”

It was no wonder Demos had been staring a hole in this man’s head. It seemed Brian had bested him and Demos had a fragile ego. For once, Demos didn’t have a response.

“And what’s that?” Brian slapped a hand to his own face in feigned surprise. “What a wee little gun! Suits you perfectly.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Demos said. He managed a snide smile. “And I’m not going to lose again.”

“You’re on, then. And what shall we bet?”

“Why don’t we use testosterone, since you seem to have it in excess.”

Brian snorted. In lieu of response, he took a sip of his tea. As he set the cup down onto the table, his eyes drew up to match Demos’.

“How about that little revolver of yours? It’s so small, you wouldn’t miss it anyway.”

There was a subtle twitch in Demos’ smile, one that only Ferris noticed. That little revolver was a gift from his grandfather. If he failed again, the words ‘I lost it in a bet’ would have to come out of his mouth—to Gino.

“And if you lose.” Demos’ eyes dropped to the weapon in Brian’s hand. “I get your Beretta?”

Brian opened his mouth to answer, but hesitated. Even Ferris could tell—the Beretta was easily twice the value of Demos’ revolver.

“That’s right,” Brian said. His green eyes glinted in the dim light.

“Fine.”

With a quick, firm handshake, it was settled.

The patrons of the shooting range seemed familiar with the rivalry Brian and Demos had. When the two approached the line, the area quieted. From the back room where Ferris was watching, hushed voices exchanged wagers. Apparently, short barreled guns were more difficult to aim. The snub nose had a harder kick, making accuracy trickier. Not only was Demos less experienced, but he was playing with a handicap. Ferris swallowed.

Demos tucked his hair out of his eye. It was too late to change weapons; Brian was already aiming.

“Twenty-five yards. Five shots each,” Brian said. The Italian only nodded, snapping the cylinder shut and holding it up to aim. He pulled back the hammer, then swallowed.

The next ten shots that rang through the air melted into one other, filling the line with echoing noise. Ferris only stood behind the glass and watched, positive that this was a terrible idea. Sometimes Demos was too confident for his own good. If he lost his first gun, he doubted Gino would be hopping to buy him another one. This was a gamble that only an immensely swelled pride would be willing to take.

Brian wheeled his target in immediately, unclipping it to pass to one of the staff.

“Add that up. Not my best, but it should do for the likes of him,” Brian said. The bullet holes had sliced through compactly, leaving a neat cluster in the middle with a couple shots along the edge. It was impressive.

Demos had brought in his target as well, holding it in both hands. He wasn’t speaking. This meant he had either done exceptionally well, or exceptionally terrible.

Brian snatched it from his hands, holding it up to the light. “Two hits? You only hit it twice? Tell me this is a joke.” Brian laughed, hand on his chest in disbelief.

Demos didn’t reply, only looking over to Ben for backup.

The man took the target, examining it carefully. “Actually, Bob, he hit it five times.”

“What’d you call me?”

“Mr. O’Brien,” Ben said. “Look, four of them just went into the same hole is all.”

“Give me that.” Brian snatched the paper back.

Indeed, the hole was a bit larger than it should have been. Four bullets had passed through the exact same spot.

“So I pulled the first shot.” Demos smiled in a way that would make any grown man want to slap him. “New gun, you know?”

Demos held his hand out, motioning for Brian’s Beretta.

Brian’s face had grown a deep shade of pink and his hands were close to shaking. He sneered. “You’re lying, the both of you.”

“You’re not backing out now—” Demos said. “Are you, Bob?”

“You’ve got a lot of fuckin’ nerve for a teenager!” There was a rage set in Brian’s eyes—sweat building on every corner of his face. “You drop that cocksucking grin before I wipe it off for you!”

“There a problem here?” came a steady voice from over Brian’s shoulder—Victor, posture firm, his arms folded across his chest. Brian clenched his teeth. Historically, men who spoke back to Victor Giorgetti woke up to the smell of a burning house.

Without another word, Brian slapped the Beretta into Demos’ hands. He gave the boy a hard glare, then turned to leave. The door slammed shut behind him.

The moment they were alone, Victor smacked the backside of Demos’ head.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“I ever hear of you betting a gift from your grandfather again and you won’t be having another birthday!”

“Yeah, okay.” Demos rubbed the spot where he’d been hit.

The scolding didn’t end when they moved to a back room. “I can’t believe you did that,” Ferris said.

“Yeah, I wasn’t too bad, huh?”

“No, I mean, I can’t believe you bet your revolver against that guy. What would you have told Gino if you lost it?”

“I’m not really sure. I didn’t plan on losing.”

“You weren’t even nervous,” Ferris said.

“Are you kidding me? I nearly choked, I was so fucking scared,” Demos said. “But I couldn’t let him know that, could I?”

“I guess.”

“And look—” Demos said with a smile. “Two guns.”

He held them both up, a little too proud. Ferris only sighed, trying to remember what he liked so much about this idiot.

“Admit it, Ferris. That was pretty cool—I was like Robin Hood.”

“Robin Hood gave his loot to the poor.”

“You want me to give a semi-automatic pistol to a homeless person?” Demos asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Seriously, that guy took it really hard,” Ferris said. “You’re probably going to end up in his trunk.”

Demos only laughed. Where Ferris fretted about both the past and the future, Demos lived in the moment. And in this moment, in this place, he had found victory.

Today, he’d won.