Fishbones Book I – Chapter 7: Protect & Serve

Posted On August 11, 2021

Illustration by Eyugho

That night, Ferris stopped by the restaurant to drop off some documents from his father, but he had—of course—been conned into staying for dinner.

In Gino’s absence, their chef had stayed true to the man’s recipes. Still, there was nothing quite like a meal prepared by Gino himself. Every once in a while, he would stop by, taking over the kitchen in a swell of garlic and basil, sweet tomatoes, and drizzles of olive oil.

This was one of those nights. Ferris would have to be some kind of idiot to turn down a meal.

“You guys want anything else?” Sergio asked.

“Do we have any sfogliatelle left? The one with chestnut mousse,” Demos said between sips of his wine.

“Yeah, sure. What about you, Fish?”

Ferris gaped at the word he’d just been called. Maybe he had heard incorrectly—he could have sworn Sergio had just called him ‘Fish.’

“No thanks, I—”

“Mangia e stài zitto,” Demos said. “He’ll have some spumoni.”

“Right, be back in a minute,” Sergio said with a smirk.

As the young man left their table, Ferris turned his attention to his friend with a hardboiled glare. “Fish? What was that supposed to mean?”

“It’s what they call you in the back,” Demos said, his attention elsewhere. “It’s short for Fishbones.”

“Why the hell would they call me that?”

Demos set down his glass and smiled, as if the answer were obvious. “It’s all you ever leave on your plate.”

Ferris observed him for a moment before glancing down at what was left of his meal. True to the tale, all that remained was the white skeleton of a Dover sole. “So—what do they call you?”

Demos faltered, throwing together a smile that didn’t quite hide the flush in his face. “Nothing,” he said. “They don’t call me anything.”

“I don’t think—”

“You know what they call Uncle Vic?” Demos said, lacing his fingers. The fake smile was still there. “Ash. Guess why.”

Ferris didn’t have to guess. Victor Giorgetti solved every problem the exact same way—burning it down. He was not a man of variety.

Before Ferris could follow up, Sergio returned with a tray and two plates. The sfogliatelle was presented with a vanilla sauce on a white dish and Ferris’ spumoni was large enough to feed a couple.

“Jesus Christ, Demos. I can’t eat this.”

“You have to. Your mom said she’d give me fifty bucks if I fattened you up a little.”

Ferris shot his friend the dirtiest look he could muster. Two could play this game. “Hey Sergio,” Ferris said, his eyes locked on Demos. “What’s Demos’ nickname?”

Demos’ spine stiffened as if a bolt of lightning had just shot through him.

Sergio grinned. “Him? He’s Ghost.”

Demos covered his eyes with one hand—now his ears were red, too.

“Please.” Ferris rested his chin on a hand, smiling. “Tell me why.”

“Because he’s whiter than a corpse.” Sergio laughed, slapping a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. The look on Demos’ face could only mean one thing—traitor.

That was right. Back at the shooting range, Brian had called him Ghostie. It seemed the nickname went beyond the family. “I thought he got his complexion from Gino,” Ferris said.

“Yeah.” Sergio shrugged. “But nobody makes fun of Nonno.”

That was fair. Gino Giorgetti had taken more lives than Ferris could count on both hands. Demos, however, was free game.

Once Sergio was gone, Ferris glanced back at his friend. “Sorry, Ghost. What were you saying?”

Demos’ eyes were tense, his smile tight—everything about his expression was wrong. He twitched. “Don’t you have some dessert to finish?”

Ferris smiled. “I’ll give it my best shot. Wouldn’t want to let Mom down, would we?”

“Whatever you say.” Demos returned the smile—this one was real. “Fishbones.”

#

After five and a half months of washing dishes, Ferris had saved enough to get the computer he’d had his eye on. It had been demanding, thankless work. Nights of nothing but the rattling of dishes and scalding water, the struggle to see through fogged glasses, and handling plates so hot that he probably didn’t have fingerprints anymore. He’d been wrist deep in swamp water and soggy food, sweating through Friday night rushes and Mother’s Day brunch. Wine glasses. There had been so, so many wine glasses.

It was time to confront Dad.

He made his move just after breakfast, when Harold was seated at the dining table with a newspaper and a cup of coffee. Ferris cleared his throat. His father tipped down the edge of his paper. There, on the table, were several rows of bills ranging from ones to twenties. Also, two quarters.

“What’s all this, for my birthday?” Harold said.

“I saved up enough to buy the laptop.”

Harold lowered his glasses, examining the stacks of cash. “I see.”

“So, I’d like you to take this and let me use your credit card.” Ferris cleared his throat. “Uh—please.”

“Kiddo.” Harold was smiling. “You did a good job. I’m proud of you.”

Oh, no. Something was wrong: he hadn’t said yes. Panic set in below Ferris’ ribs. His plan, his entire plan, had been—

“What I want you to do,” Harold said, “is take this money and open up a bank account. Save it.”

“But—”

“I’ll buy you that computer.”

Ferris paused. The fear that had welled up in his chest fizzled into a nervous laugh. He blinked. “I—yeah,” Ferris said. “Thanks, Dad.”

“And in twenty years, when you’ve got all that interest saved—” Harold rustled his newspaper, his eyes returning to his article. “You’re going to buy me a Lexus.”

“Sure.” Ferris smiled. “Anything you want.”

#

From that day on, the laptop accompanied Ferris almost everywhere—through sweltering subway stations, to the bookstore slash cafe two blocks from his house that had Demos’ favorite coffee cake, through Foley Park in the height of summer, when fat squirrels and pigeons skirmished for discarded french fries by the fountain. There was one place, though, that was special. The building that had been his second home from the minute he had learned to read—the Southport Public Library.

It was also the only place he was guaranteed to never run into Seamus.

Ferris never spoke to anyone in these public places, content to be alone amidst crowds. There was one spot in the library near the periodicals, tucked in the back, that was especially quiet. It was the perfect place for homework.

He sunk into the armchair against the wall, attempting to settle his lanky frame into something resembling comfort. In the time it had taken him to save for the computer, he had grown—tall enough to be mistaken for an adult. Shaving had been added to his morning routine—well, only once a week, but still. Demos, however, seemed to have peaked at 5’6” in the tenth grade and had remained there ever since. Another feature he’d inherited from Gino.

With a few cracks of his knuckles, Ferris started typing. He didn’t notice the next hour go by, nor did he realize the sun had set. His eyes didn’t leave the screen at all until he felt a presence beside him. He looked up.

“I figured you’d be here,” Demos said with a smile. “You weren’t answering your phone.”

“Demos,” Ferris said. “Uh—sorry. I had it on silent.”

“Nonno and Uncle Vic are waiting in the car. You’re still coming to the show tonight, right?”

“Fuck, I forgot.” Ferris dragged his palm over his face. “Sorry, just let me save this.”

The Lincoln was parked at the curb. They piled into the back, shutting the door just as Victor pulled out into the street. The traffic that evening was particularly heavy, something Victor was quick to grow vocal about.

“Fucking parade, why can’t they do this shit when every asshole in the city isn’t trying to get somewhere?”

“It’s fine, there’s no hurry,” Gino said. Ferris wished that the man’s attitude was contagious; the traffic was getting on his nerves as well.

“Oh yeah, cut off by a cop, too. That’s just great,” Victor said as a police car crept into their lane. He tapped his brakes, coming to a complete stop to avoid hitting the bumper. A few minutes later the traffic seemed to ease. Once they made it to an open road, Victor’s mood improved.

It didn’t last long.

Without warning, the police car in front of them slammed on its brakes. Victor jerked the steering wheel, sending his Lincoln in a sharp curve, but with a shriek of scraping metal, his Town Car plowed into the back bumper. Shattered glass tumbled onto the pavement. A long, gray scar raked across the patrol car. Rubber wafted on the air.

Ferris clutched the seatbelt over his chest, gasping. It had locked in place, digging a ditch across his body. His hand had involuntarily throttled the door handle. He knew the car had stopped, but couldn’t bring himself to let go. He turned toward Demos.

“You okay?” Demos asked, panting.

Ferris nodded, then looked to the front seat, where Gino was straightening his suit jacket. Victor, on the other hand, had tossed off his seatbelt with a clack.

No one had died. But someone was about to.

Red and blue lights popped on, accompanied by a few wails of the police vehicle’s siren, but Victor still threw the door open. “Testa di cazzo! My car!”

This did not seem to be the reaction of choice for the two policemen who had just stepped out of their vehicle. “Hands up where we can see them!” One officer was already reaching for the holster at his belt.

Victor’s hands did not go up, instead gesturing wildly at the Lincoln’s busted headlight. “Protect and serve my dick!” he shouted. “Look at this! Look what you fucking did!”

There was a click of two guns as both policemen drew their weapons. They clutched them with both hands, fixing their frames to the ground.

The officer repeated himself. “I said get your hands up, now! Step away from the vehicle!”

At this, Victor’s eyes fell on the two weapons. Slowly, he raised his hands. “Oh.” He shook his head. “Bad move.”

Ferris’ hand tightened on the seatbelt. The Southport police force was not known for showing restraint. This was worse than the collision, worse than the scrape of steel and the ring of shattered glass.

The car shifted. With the clack of an opening door, Gino stepped out. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said.

Ferris could feel something twisting directly under his sternum. Shit. Shit. Demos was going to have to watch his uncle and grandfather get shot to pieces by two policemen, forever remembering this as the worst night of his life. This would haunt him for—

Ferris glanced over. Demos was slumped in his seat, squinting at the tips of his own bangs. “I think I have split ends,” he said. “Ugh—I just got a haircut.”

“Demos, what the fuck—”

“I know! I am never going back there again.”

“No, your—” Ferris gestured to the scene unfolding just outside the car. “Gino is out there. He’s talking to the cops.”

Demos glanced out the windshield, then back at his hair. “Yeah. Sucks to be them.”

Through the window, all Ferris could see of Gino was a dark shape against headlights, a halo of red and blue highlighting the edges of his frame. Then, his calm voice. “There seems to be a misunderstanding.”

One of the officers shuffled his posture, keeping his gun in one hand, gesturing for Gino to halt with the other. “Get back inside the vehicle, Sir.”

Gino didn’t move, save to adjust a cufflink. “Call your commanding officer. They can clear this up for you.”

The officer with his hand up snorted. “Yeah, uh—I think he’s a little too busy for traffic violations. Get back in your car, old man.”

“Perhaps two steps higher, then?” Gino said.

The other policeman spoke in a wheeze of laughter. “You want us to call the Chief of Police? The Southport Chief of Police?”

“Correct.”

“Oh, yeah,” the first officer said. “Cause I got his number right here in my phone, after my mother-in-law’s.” The policeman adjusted his aim. Now, each Giorgetti had a gun on them. “Hands up. Now.”

Whatever air Ferris tried to inhale got caught halfway down his windpipe. His hand flattened on the glass. With a skip in his pulse, he looked back at Demos.

Still playing with his hair.

What the actual fuck was wrong with him?

Gino held up a finger. “Just a moment.” His silhouette lifted a hand to his ear—a cell phone. Gino was standing there—with a gun aimed right between his eyes—and he was making a phone call.

The wait was only two seconds. Whoever he was calling had picked up immediately.

“Ah, Chief Blakely,” Gino said. “I hope you’re having a nice evening.”

Ferris could see the outlines of the policemen shift as they turned to look at each other. They weren’t buying it.

Gino chuckled. “Yes, of course—well, it was a nice evening until two of your patrolmen had an encounter with my son’s vehicle. They seem to have drawn their weapons on him.”

There was another pause—this one longer.

“Oh, I think it would be much better if they told you themselves.” There was a beep, and Gino’s hand lowered, presenting the phone. The two officers leaned in.

“Um,” the first one said. “Chief?”

The voice that came through the small speaker was loud enough to hear inside the cab of the Lincoln—and probably in Connecticut, too. “Put your fucking dicks back in your holsters and give me your names and badge numbers!”

They immediately lowered their guns. “Uh—Cole, um—ten, one seven one—” The officer seemed to have trouble remembering his own number. It took a minute for both of them to blurt their identification to the nuclear reaction on the other end of the line.

“Can you read?” Blakely was still shouting, words tinged with static.

The second policeman faltered. “What?”

“Can you fucking read?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So the letters on that goddamn license plate are legible to you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Listen here, you fucking traffic cones—”

The two officers leaned in closer.

Blakely’s voice echoed. “We do not—”

Ferris could see the officers’ postures weaken.

“Pull over—”

The officers cringed.

“That fucking Town Car! Who’s your C.O.? Which precinct are you shitheads from?”

The first officer coughed, or choked maybe, before speaking. “Captain Roberts—29^th Precinct, Sir.”

“Well get the fuck back to Twenty-Nine and tell Roberts that if he wants to stay a captain, he’d better get his sorry ass down to my fucking office—now!”

The line went dead.

“Well,” Gino pocketed the phone. Ferris could hear the smile in his voice. “You’d best be on your way.”

There was a scuffling of soles over pavement as the two men retreated to their vehicle. Doors slammed shut, the patrol lights clicked off, and within seconds, the police car had screeched off into the night, a dog with its tail between its legs.

Victor heaved a piece of broken plastic after the retreating vehicle. “Yeah, you drive away,” he shouted. “Fottuti sbirri!”

“Victor, please.”

But Victor continued to grumble as he and Gino returned to the battered Lincoln. Ferris finally tore his eyes away from Gino. It was over—so why was his pulse still racing? Gino Giorgetti had the Southport Chief of Police on call—the most powerful man in the entire force. On speed dial. How on God’s green earth had he managed that?

Ferris glanced over at Demos, who blinked back at him. “What?”

Ferris let out a short breath. “Nothing.”

Of course. This was normal for Demos. Not only was his grandfather a ruthless crime lord, but he was impervious to the entire SPD. Immune to the law. Untouchable.

It was petrifying.

Victor was back in the driver’s seat. He adjusted the rearview mirror, catching his nephew’s reflection. “You kids okay back there?”

“Yeah,” Demos said. “We’re fine.”

“We’d better not be late,” Victor said through grit teeth, restarting the car. “Fucking cops.”

“You worry too much,” Gino said. The window cracked and he lit a cigarette, leaning back in his seat. The car pulled back onto the road, leaving behind a few bits of broken glass and bumper.

Somehow, they made it to the show with a few minutes to spare.