Fishbones Book I – Chapter 9: New Years

Posted On September 1, 2021

Illustration by Eyugho

Autumn had come and gone too quickly. It was already snowing again and Ferris and Demos had found shelter at the Sparrow Diner. In the three years since his first cup of black coffee, Ferris had grown to enjoy it. It had taken the entire three years. There was a mug of it between his hands, the hot ceramic thawing the frozen joints of his fingers.

Demos had opted for tea. He was gazing out the window as he took a sip, recoiled, then set the cup down. It seemed his journey into the world of cheap diner tea had been a mistake.

What was he looking at, anyway?

Across the street, a police car had pulled over a sedan, its lights flashing across the diner window. Cops. The memory of Gino making that phone call and the tremor in the officer’s voice struck Ferris like a foul ball to the temple.

Ferris looked down into his coffee, then back up at Demos. “So, Blakely. That’s the police chief’s name, right?”

“Yeah,” Demos said, distant. His eyes were still fixated on the scene outside.

“What does Gino have on him, anyway?”

Finally, Demos’ eyes trailed away from the window, stopping to lock on Ferris. “What makes you think I know?”

“You know.”

“Well.” Demos stirred his drink, releasing plumes of steam from the cup. “It’s not a pretty story.”

“Tell me.”

Demos took a moment to scan the nearby tables. Fortunately, there was no one in earshot. Chatter and clinking plates overpowered any muttering the two exchanged. “There’s this guy who owns a motel—he’s in our territory, pays protection,” Demos said. “He’s a huge fucking pervert. Keeps cameras in some of the rooms.”

Ferris was starting to understand precisely how this story wasn’t “pretty.”

“Anyway,” Demos continued. “The SPD upper brass—they all used that motel. Like it was the one place on earth their wives would never find. The Chief did, too—a lot. But this one time—”

Demos paused, breaking eye contact.

“She couldn’t have been older than thirteen. The owner got it on tape—traded it to Nonno for a year’s worth of fees. Blakely would—he would literally eat shit to keep that from getting out.”

“What the fuck,” Ferris said. “That’s rape—he should be in fucking prison.”

“A lot of us should be in prison, Fish.” Demos looked back up. “We have his entire force at our feet. The Marianis, the Irish—all of them get arrested. We don’t.”

Ferris fell silent. He took a long drink of coffee, his fingers tight on the mug. Blakely, Gino, Victor—they all belonged in prison. Every single one of them. But Demos—

His mug hit the table.  Only a month ago, he’d seen the article in the paper. Two bodies in an auto shop. One on the curb outside. A triple homicide with no leads.

It was strange, acknowledging your own hypocrisy. He could feel it in his chest, rotting, something that had been there for a long, long time. He was completely, painfully aware of it.

And once again, he would do nothing.

“We’ve got Blakely in a vice,” Demos was saying. “He’s not going to do anything like that again. Living as a mob puppet is punishment enough.”

Ferris’ head dropped. He felt sick. “Yeah.”

“And now—”

A waiter placed their food down. Two slices of pie—one babka, one Hudson Valley apple. Demos nudged the babka across the table.

“Now that you know,” Demos smiled, “I’m going to have to kill you.”

There—his best friend pushing over a slice of pie with a cliched joke and the most tender smile he’d ever seen. The reason for the pain in his chest, for the tearing sensation of a rope pulled in two directions.

Across the street, car doors slammed shut and the flashing lights stopped. Tires cut through slush as the police car left the scene. Ferris’ eyes fell to the pie.

“Yeah,” Ferris said. “You probably should.”

#

There were only a few hours left in the year. Ferris, Demos, and Seamus had holed up in Victor’s living room. Victor and Vanni had left to attend an adult gathering, giving the boys the run of the house. Initially, it had sounded like a night off—until Demos insisted that Ferris bring his violin. Apparently, Demos’ idea of fun was rehearsing a duet of Dvorak’s Romance to an audience of one inebriated Briton.

Demos’ hands were made for the piano—thin, white fingers over thin, white keys. He had never joined the school’s orchestra, because he never played for anyone but himself. By the time midnight had passed, Seamus had joined him on the piano bench.

“Come on, Seamus,” Demos said. “Sit up.”

Demos leaned sideways. Seamus, who had been hanging on him, slipped down on the bench. Every drink Seamus had consumed was evident through his voice, his breath, and his audacious lack of coordination.

Demos gave Ferris a pleading look. “Can you take him home, please?”

“Sure, I have rehearsal in the morning, anyway,” Ferris said.

One might have expected a week off around the holidays, but the St. Basil’s Symphony Orchestra conductor had too large a pride and too small a heart to offer such charity. Half the orchestra would likely stay home, but Ferris and his flawless attendance record didn’t have that privilege.

“Yeah,” Seamus said. “Carry me. Promised Mum I’d be home.”

Ferris sighed, closing the latches on his violin case. “No one is carrying you anywhere. Get up.”

He pulled his friend’s arm around his shoulder, easing him into something that resembled standing.

Demos opened the door. “Good luck. If he gets too heavy, call a cab.”

“You calling me fat?” was the last thing Seamus said as he was guided down the sidewalk.

It was a challenge, bearing the weight of his taller, densely-muscled friend in one hand and the violin case in the other. Each step was an ordeal, and what would normally be a twenty-minute walk seemed like it was going to be at least twice as long.

Seamus’ breath rose in liquor-tainted puffs, dissipating in the cold air. Ferris shouldn’t have let him drink so much. It wasn’t good for him—but then, Seamus was never very concerned with his health.

They left a peculiar set of footprints, half-dragged and uneven in the snow. At least Seamus was warm. The year 2001 was still a newborn and was already biting his skin with a vengeance. It was quiet. Each step in the unsalted snow released a soft crunch.

“You shouldn’t drink this much,” Ferris said. Snow was already settling on their coats.

“And you,” Seamus said. “Should get your migraines checked by a doctor.”

They had gone over this before.

“I have aspirin. It’s fine.”

“No one should be taking five aspirin a day,” Seamus said, vinegar in his voice.

Ferris scoffed. “No one should be drinking a six-pack a day.”

“It’s not always beer,” Seamus said before he could realize the fault in his response. He was slipping. Ferris adjusted his grip, holding to him with a tight, gloved hand.

“M’fine.” Seamus made an attempt to pull away. “I can walk.” He stood upright, managed a step and a half, and then staggered. His hand caught Ferris’s shoulder, nearly dragging them both to the sidewalk. Somehow, Ferris managed to grasp Seamus’ elbow and pull him flush against his coat. The violin case tottered in his grip.

“No, you can’t.”

“Eh.” Seamus seemed to have given up, letting his friend bear his weight for a second time. They only made it another half-block before they were greeted with noise—laughter and the clinks of bottles. There was a group ahead, a silhouette of three in the gray, snowy air. It seemed there were others heading home from parties.

It was then he heard it—a familiar voice amidst the chatter, one so loud and repulsive that Ferris would recognize it anywhere.

Rudy Sauber.

And not just Rudy—all three of them. It had been a little over a year since the “car accident,” and they had left Ferris alone from the moment they’d returned to school. But from the sound of it, they were drunk. Their voices slurred into one another and their frames shambled beneath the glow of a street lamp like the walking dead.

As the two parties convened, Ferris cast his eyes down. Maybe they wouldn’t recognize him. Maybe they would keep their distance in spite of their few remaining brain cells floating in what smelled like cheap beer. Their voices grew louder.

The sidewalk was too small.

Ferris held his breath as the trio passed them, continuing on their way toward the other end of the block. It seemed there wouldn’t be a confrontation. He exhaled.

Then, he heard it. Rudy’s voice—mumbling just loud enough to make out one word: “Cocksuckers.”

Seamus’ eyes snapped open.

“Seamus—” Ferris said. “Wait, don’t—”

It was too little and too late. Seamus had shoved himself free from his human crutch, turning in place to shout across the open sidewalk. “Say that to my fucking face!”

Ferris’ blood was freezing in every vein, every artery.

The three boys stopped in place. Rudy glanced backward. “Sorry, did you say something?”

“Say it again, cunt!” Seamus’ voice was echoing now. “Get over here and say it!”

“Say what?” Rudy’s lips twisted into a lopsided smile. “Cocksuckers?”

A crack shattered the stillness as Seamus’ fist met Rudy’s jaw, a runaway steam engine without brakes.

Oh, no.

Seamus’ victory was short-lived. As Rudy clutched his face, Zach moved in for a hard shove. Seamus’ back hit the lamp post, rattling steel, shaking loose clumps of snow. He slid down the length of the pole and hit the ground with a low groan. It seemed he had exhausted every last dredge of power in that single punch.

Ferris’ insides knotted. “Seamus—”

And all three of the boys turned to face Ferris.

His brain shut down. Running wasn’t an option—he couldn’t leave Seamus behind. He was cold, outnumbered, and clutching the handle of a violin case. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This was supposed to be over.

“You,” Rudy said, locking eyes. His voice was glazed, the scent of stale beer on his breath. “I was in the hospital for two weeks, you little shit.”

Rudy’s hands thumped into Ferris’ chest, shoving him backward. Ferris staggered, his grip tightening on the case handle. Another shove sent both Ferris and the violin toppling onto snow. The case hit the sidewalk with a thick crack.

Rudy’s focus snapped to it. He growled, wound back his heel, and kicked. The case rolled three times before the clasps snapped off, spilling the polished wooden instrument onto the pavement.

Something cold and acidic rose in Ferris’ throat. His face drained, his heart raced, pumping rime from his chest to his fingertips.

“No!” Ferris reached forward, hand shivering. “No!”

His fingers fell short. Rudy’s black winter boot came down on the bridge of the violin, splintering the dark, glossy maple. The strings snapped, sending a sharp trill through the frozen air.

Something else snapped, too. It was somewhere in Ferris’ body, spreading like cracks over glass, cinching his hands into tight, snarled fists. His breath clouded, hot, rising from a bed of glowing coals. He locked eyes on the splinters scattered across the icy sidewalk. The strings were curled and strewn, leaving thin impressions in the snow.

Ferris didn’t think. He was up. Then he and Rudy hit the sidewalk, grappling, tearing at one another. Something cracked—a bone. A joint. Was it his? Glasses clattered and his vision clouded. All he could see was the glare of the street lamp, the hazy shadow of another surging body. Then the world flipped. Then there was an arm against his throat.

Ferris could feel him—Rudy’s body square against his back, the bones of his wrist channeling across his jugular. Knees scraped pavement as Ferris fought to break free, but Rudy’s grip only tightened. Ferris’ chest wrenched, a frantic attempt to draw in air.

He couldn’t breathe.

His hands tore at Rudy’s arm, but the hold was rock-solid. Ferris could feel pain and pressure building in his lungs, burning. Dizziness settled over him, a fog eating away at whatever strength was left in his limbs. His body jerked against Rudy’s chest.

It was strange, how bright the sky seemed.

Then the arm left him. There was a snap, the thump of a body, blurred figures scraping over the snow and the sidewalk. Ferris collapsed onto his hands, gasping. Cold air swept into his chest between coughs. The color returned to his face.

What the fuck had—

He picked up his head in time to see the hazy outline of what appeared to be Seamus beating the ever living shit out of Rudy Sauber.

Oh.

Seamus had found his second wind. Ferris could only stare as the bleary shadows of Paul and Zach rushed in to join the fight, only to get thrown to the ground like children’s toys caught in a tantrum. The sounds were clear in the frigid air—knuckles on bone, a flying tooth, the crunch of a mangled nose.

Ferris’ hands fumbled through the snow, patting over pavement until he found the crooked arms of his glasses. The moment he slipped them on, the scene became clear. Seamus was hunched and coughing, gagging on his own blood. The other boys were unconscious at his feet at awkward angles.

Ferris scrambled forward to catch Seamus before he fell, holding him against his chest with what little strength he had. “Fer—” Seamus groaned. “Think—think I’m gonna be sick.”

Ferris couldn’t help the hitch in his voice. “Seamus, hold on.”

Seamus’ face was mottled five different colors and his lip was swollen. Blood stained his hair and temple, running down from both his nose and mouth. He was silent for a minute, his pants for air the only sign that he was conscious.

“You all right, mate?” Seamus’ voice was hoarse, muffled against Ferris’ coat.

Ferris took a moment to run his hand over his throat. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m fine. We need to call an ambulance—”

“S’all good—”

This was the last thing Seamus said before he passed out, leaving Ferris the only conscious person on the Birch Street sidewalk.

#

The new year was three hours old by the time they arrived at the hospital. Its interior was still decorated for Christmas in an attempt to add warmth to the sterile, bleak environment. A nurse pushed a wheelchair past the emergency room doors, unnoticed by the sixteen-year-old waiting in the lobby.

Ferris was hunched over, leaning his chin on his hands and staring at the off-white tile, flecked with gray and in need of a quick mopping. He’d been waiting for an hour, his hand rubbing unconsciously on the reddened line across his neck. Seamus had been swept in past the double doors sixty-two minutes ago and he hadn’t heard a word since.

There was a thick crack down one of his glasses lenses, leaving half the waiting area in the dullest mosaic he’d ever seen. Maybe not seeing would be better right now. Stale, cold air and white fluorescent lighting did nothing to flatter the scrapes on his hands. The tissue wedged into his left nostril still smelled like iron.

His eyelids were heavy. He might have given in and closed them if a woman in a white coat hadn’t stopped directly in front of him.

“You brought in Mr. Aston, correct?” The doctor was flipping through a stack of papers on a clipboard.

“Yes,” Ferris said, surprised at how dry his voice was.

“Six stitches. Looks like he has a mild concussion. We gave him some acetaminophen. He’ll be out in a minute.”

Ferris let out the breath that had welled up in his chest, then nodded.

“Just make sure he gets some rest and keeps ice on his bump for the swelling. He might be a little confused from the hit to his head, so don’t worry if he starts repeating things.”

“Okay,” Ferris said. “Thank you.”

The doctor paused, flipping to another page on the chart. She frowned. “Your friend had a blood alcohol concentration of .12 percent,” she said. “We weren’t able to get in touch with his parents.” She waited until she had Ferris’ full attention before continuing. “Don’t let it happen again.”

Ferris nodded once more. Seamus’ mother had never been easy to get a hold of, and his father was back in London. Someone had to be responsible for him, didn’t they?

Didn’t they?

The next few minutes dragged. Staring at the time on the wall clock certainly didn’t help. Ferris hunched forward, forcing himself to look away from the clock. The wall wasn’t any more interesting.

Finally, the swinging doors opened.

A woman in sea-foam scrubs was pushing Seamus’ wheelchair. She slowed when Ferris leapt up and scampered past rows of chairs to meet them. “Seamus—”

Seamus was the ugliest Christmas tree in the lobby. His head bore a garland of bandages secured over a fat pad of gauze, his right arm was decked in a sling, and it was all topped off with the shining star of a cocksure grin.

“Hey Fer,” he said. “What happened to your nose?”

“We got in a fight, remember?” Ferris said.

“Oh right.” Seamus narrowed his eyes in supposedly deep thought. “I won, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you won.” Ferris didn’t bother fighting his own smile. “How do you feel?”

“You got my flask on you?”

“What? No. That shit is what got you into this mess in the first place.”

“Well, you’re no fun.” Seamus raised his eyebrows. “And what’s with that chuffed look?”

This caught Ferris off guard. “Look? Oh, I just—I’m just glad you’re all right. I thought—”

Seamus laughed.

“What?” Ferris said with a scowl.

“Mr. Levinstein, I think you’re fond of me.” Seamus was starting to look a little too pleased with himself. “Oh, my darling mate Seamus got into a fight, whatever will I do—I simply can’t live without him.”

Ferris glared. “I’m going to push your wheelchair down a hill.”

“I’d love that, but I think I can walk now.”

“Last time you said that you almost fell on your ass,” Ferris said, folding his arms.

“I mean it. Come on, Fer, help me up.” Seamus reached for him, taking Ferris’ hand in an impossibly tight grip. With very little confidence, Ferris eased him upright.  To his shock, Seamus managed to stand on his own.

“Told you,” Seamus said. “I’m all right.”

“Come on, let’s go home.” In this instance, “home” was the Levinstein household. The cold, empty apartment that Seamus shared with his mostly-absent mother didn’t feel like the right place to leave him.

“Hey—” Seamus said. “Think the rest of the year’ll be this fun?”

It wasn’t off to a good start. Seamus had hit the ground running, drunk before the ball dropped, brawling before the sun rose. Ferris hadn’t even made it one day without nearly dying. Was that what Rudy would have done? If Seamus hadn’t barreled into him like a starved grizzly bear, would Rudy have stopped? Ferris tested his throat—it still hurt to swallow.

“God, I hope not.”