Fishbones Book I – Chapter 8: Ends of the Earth
Illustration by Eyugho
There had been a blackout that afternoon. October had been especially rainy and more days were filled with storms than not. They were Juniors now—not quite young, but not quite old.
School had only been out for five minutes and Ferris was already waiting in front of a bodega down the street. He browsed the sun-bleached advertisements wallpapering the window, hands stuffed into his pockets.
The Lincoln was parked along the curb. Somehow, Demos had convinced his uncle to lend it to him for the afternoon, but he was still inside, “shopping.”
The door opened with a chime. Demos emerged, carrying a weary look and a pack of cigarettes. He was by no means old enough to purchase them.
“Hey.” Demos picked at the plastic wrap.
Ferris looked over. “Funny meeting spot.”
“I ran out.” Demos shrugged, retrieving one cigarette and pocketing the rest. “I couldn’t wait.” He folded back the cover of a matchbook, then cupped the cigarette to light it.
It was strange, how good that smelled—a freshly struck match, the wisp of smoke as it was shaken out. It smelled like fireworks, like winter nights.
Like standing beside his friend beneath a bodega awning.
Demos looked up at the darkening sky. “Looks like rain.”
“Got a feeling in your bones, or did the power outage tip you off?”
The blackout had been unceremonious. Lights had returned to the building within seconds. Demos’ remark seemed to have been on cue, however, as the sidewalk began to speckle with rain. The awning was sufficient shelter for the time being.
Demos was quiet. There was a far-off look about him, one he got when he couldn’t find words. He wasn’t flicking his cigarette. The paper was slowly burning down to a long, fragile column of ash that would only fall when its own weight was too much to bear.
“I need to ask you something,” Demos said. “It’s silly.”
“Go ahead.”
Demos inhaled smoke and held it, stalling for time before he breathed out a long plume. His attention drifted down from the sky to Ferris’ face. “Would you follow me to the ends of the earth?”
“The earth is round, Ghost.”
Demos rolled his eyes. “Humor me, asshole.”
“Sure,” Ferris said with a shrug. “Why not.”
The cylinder of ash broke, sending flakes of burnt paper to the damp sidewalk below. “Get in the car.”
Ferris’ hand stopped short of the passenger side door. Demos’ hand was on his wrist.
“No,” Demos said. “I need you to drive.”
Ferris paused. He had only gotten his license three months ago and wasn’t sure if he wanted to test his skills on Victor Giorgetti’s newly-repaired car. The look on Demos’ face, however, was one he couldn’t say no to.
The doors slammed shut, followed by silence as Ferris waited for further instruction. Rain speckled on the windshield, the soft pattering only intensifying the quiet.
“Ninth and Manning,” Demos said.
He’d left the key in the ignition. Ferris thumbed it and felt the Lincoln rumble to life. He pulled into the street. “Where are we going?”
Demos took in a breath so deep it distracted Ferris from the fact that he was pulling Victor Giorgetti’s Lincoln slash firstborn child into rush hour traffic. That far-off, stock-still look was back.
“I—” Demos closed his eyes. “It’s an auto shop.”
“You, uh—didn’t your uncle already fix this car?”
Demos shook his head. Ferris gave him a moment—it looked like he needed it.
“It was one shipment,” Demos said. His voice cracked. “Just stereos and dash kits. All I had to do was fence them. It was supposed to be so fucking simple—just meet them and make the exchange.”
Ferris could hear his friend’s throat tightening with each word. “What happened?”
“They left me there.” Demos stared harder out the window. “They fucking left me there and took the van. They didn’t pay—they were never going to pay.”
From the corner of his eye, Ferris saw his hands begin to shake.
“And when I found them, they—” Demos said. “They laughed in my face. Called me a kid, told me to go back to school.” He took a hard breath, his shoulders falling as he exhaled.
Ferris stopped at a red light and finally looked over. “Hey,” he said. “It’s not your—”
“It is my fault. I had—I had one fucking job to do, and I screwed it up.” There was pain in his voice. “I need those stereos.”
He sounded desperate. So desperate, in fact, that he’d opened the glove compartment to start loading a handgun. Ferris saw it from the corner of his eye as the light turned green. His heart skipped; they’d just passed 10th.
“Wait,” he said. “What exactly are you planning on—”
“Just drive, okay?”
“You’re not going to—”
“Here,” Demos said. “Stop here.”
It was the auto shop, an old gray building with four garage doors. The letters ‘Now Open’ were faded, paint peeling from the façade. Cars had been stuffed into every corner of the narrow parking space, some half rusted, others half missing.
For a moment, they both sat motionless.
“I’ll be right back,” Demos said, reaching to open the door. The lock made a hard click as the knob went down, stifling his effort. He looked over at Ferris, who was glaring back at him.
“Ferris, unlock the door,” Demos said.
“No. We’re going home.”
“You said you’d follow me—”
“To the ends of the earth, yeah. I never said I’d drive you to your grave,” Ferris said.
“Fish—” Demos eyes dropped, his voice quieting against the rain. “I know what you’re thinking. But I have to do this. I could come back later and do it alone, but—” He sighed. “I need you here.”
Ferris’ finger still hovered over the master lock. If he pressed the button, he could be sending his best friend to his death. He would have to live with that decision for the rest of his life. If he drove off right now, Demos would be stupid enough to do it anyway, but he’d be by himself.
If he died, it would be alone.
Ferris exhaled. Something in his gut twisted, pulling him in on his own body. It hurt. The ends of the earth—that was certainly what this felt like. For a moment, there was only the sound of drops hitting glass.
The lock clicked up.
Demos spoke, perhaps the last words Ferris would ever hear him say. “If I’m not the first person out the door, drive away.”
Before Ferris could reply or think, the passenger seat was empty.
Minutes passed, but the sick feeling low in his body remained. Ferris’ eyes were locked on the entrance, his hands in a vice grip on the steering wheel. He could hear it, a hollow thudding where his heart used to be, aching as he waited for something, anything, to happen. The prickling in his hands intensified. He couldn’t see through the windows of the shop or hear anything from inside. What if they had already hurt him? What if he was already—
Ferris shut his eyes. He shook his head, begging himself to stop visualizing the worst. Demos was fine. He had to be.
Gunshots echoed across the open space—three of them. Then two more. Then silence.
Ferris straightened, his eyes fastened on the door. His pulse had invaded the inside of his skull—pounding, deafening.
The door flung open. Ferris’ eyes strained, making out the silhouette.
It wasn’t Demos.
A bloodied man rushed outside, eyes darting from left to right before landing on the running car—and Ferris. As their eyes met, Ferris remembered what he was supposed to do.
Drive away.
He couldn’t move.
It was impossible—Demos couldn’t have lost. Drive away. Those weren’t his last words. This wasn’t where he was going to die.
The man stumbled forward. His hand grasped at the car’s door handle.
Drive away.
The body jerked, collapsing against the passenger door before sliding to the ground. Red streaked down the window, but Ferris could still see past it.
There was one figure in the doorway, silenced .357 still aimed at the corpse. This time, it was Demos.
His eyes flicked up to Ferris’.
Ferris surged across the center console, flung open the passenger doors, and blurted, “Get in the fucking car!”
He was already halfway down the block by the time Demos slammed the door shut against the smell of burning rubber. “The warehouse,” Demos said, his breath coming in gasps.
Ferris knew exactly what he meant. There was a small warehouse only a few blocks away that Nicky and Sal, two of Victor’s men, used as storage. It was a struggle to keep the car in its lane, to keep from going 90 on a quiet, industrial backroad.
Once they arrived, Demos leaned over the driver’s seat, hands shaking as he entered the pass code.
The gate closed behind them.
They took a moment to breathe, cloaked in the shadow of the warehouse walls. Ferris cut the engine, dropping them into silence.
“What happened?”
Demos was trembling. He lifted a tight fist speckled with blood. His fingers opened slowly, revealing a set of keys in his palm. “For the van,” he said. “I—”
He swallowed. Somehow, he was even paler than usual, the spots of red on his face standing out against his skin. Ferris fumbled through the glove compartment for a handkerchief, leaning in to wipe the blood from Demos’ temple.
“Is this—?”
“It’s not mine,” Demos said. “I’m fine. He was still struggling to breathe, eyes wide as they fell on the keys in his hand. “The van.” Demos’ next breath came in a shudder. “It’s—it’s parked on Tenth. I have to go back and—”
He sucked in a chestful of air, then curled forward into his own lap. He put a hand over his mouth. “I—I shot them,” Demos said through his fingers. “Three of them.”
Ferris’ hand found Demos’ back, his fingers tightening against the fine fabric. “It’s okay,” he said, not knowing which one of them he was saying it for. “Breathe.”
The shaking stopped. The inside of the car was still—quiet. As the seconds passed, Ferris could feel his friend’s frame calm beneath his hand. “I’ve never done that before,” Demos murmured.
It was then that Ferris remembered that he was angry. “Three guys?” Ferris snapped. “There were three fucking guys and you still did it? You stupid asshole! You just scared ten years off of my goddamn life. I almost had a heart attack—I think I did have a heart attack. Jesus Christ. I hope you’re happy with—”
“Fish—”
“What?”
“Thanks,” Demos said. “For staying.”
At the Ghost’s smile, Ferris forgot the rest of his rant, “Well.” He looked away. “Someone had to.” He fought to keep his lips flattened. Demos didn’t deserve a smile back. Not after that stunt. “Next time,” Ferris said. “I’m leaving your ass on the curb.”
“Got it.”
After a moment, Ferris swallowed his pride and looked back. His glare softened as he thought back to the dread that had taken over every inch of his being, the terror at the thought of never seeing Demos again. Here he was, alive in the passenger seat, smiling like a jackass.
“You sure you’re okay?” Ferris asked. “You can walk and everything?”
“I told you, I’m fine.”
“Good,” Ferris said. “Because you’re about to clean the living fuck out of your uncle’s car.”