Fishbones Book II – Chapter 41: Over

Posted On September 29, 2021

Illustration by Eyugho

There were times Ferris forgot he was employed. So much of his life was occupied with Demos, with his family. Yet those moments barely felt real as he sat in his office chair, his eyes straining over a spreadsheet with far too many tabs and columns. The workday was nearly over and most of his team had already departed.

But it was never long until the Ghost wedged back into his consciousness.

Ferris’ phone rang only once before he snapped it open. Somehow, at the sound of Demos’ voice, the spreadsheets faded into the background. A bad dream with bad formulas.

“Did you want to come over tonight?” Demos asked. Ferris could hear the click of a lighter. “To the compound.”

Ferris let out a short breath. “I told Mom I’d stop by the house to water the plants and shit. She’s visiting aunt Deb again.”

Ruth had been visiting her sister more often as of late. Ferris found it a good thing, as the more company his mother had, the happier she seemed to be.

“You can come along if you want,” Ferris said. “But it won’t be very exciting.”

There was a pause on the line and Ferris could practically hear Demos raising his eyebrows. “We’ll have the place to ourselves?”

“Oh come on,” Ferris said with a scoff. “It’s my mom’s house.”

“You used to live there, too.”

“Used to,” Ferris muttered. “So, are you coming?”

“Sounds thrilling. I’m in.”

#

His mother had a lot more plants than Ferris had remembered. He tested the soil of each and every one, gauging the dryness with his fingers and calculating the appropriate level of substrate moisture versus intensity of sunlight, pot material, and general humidity. Much to Demos’ dismay.

By the time Ferris had finished, Demos was halfway through a shower he had chosen to take, insisting it was preferable to watching him “fuss over leaves or whatever.” The sound of running water was still going strong, leaving Ferris on his own. He glanced down at the list his mother had left him, his eyes trailing down to the second item—unchecked.

Clear out your closet.

He sighed, tacking the list back to the refrigerator and making his way upstairs. His mother had asked him repeatedly to remove some of the old things he had been storing in his room. Ferris’ argument that she had an entire three-story brownstone to herself while he had only a two-bedroom apartment that he shared with another man had sadly made no difference.

Soon he was seated on his old bedroom floor, flanked by stacks of boxes. Each one recounting a period of his youth, like layers of geological strata narrating the history of a slice of rock. He had devised four working piles: trash, donate, take home, and leave in the closet and hope mom doesn’t notice.

He dug through old schoolwork and music sheets, thumbing through a stack of photographs that had been secured with a rubber band. Just as he moved to set it aside, his thumb stopped on a single photo.

There he was, a teenager in a suit and tie—standing beside his father the evening after his high school graduation. Harold was beaming. Proud. It was one of the last photos they had taken together. The usual pain that invaded his chest at these times was absent. Perhaps his heart was showing mercy. Or maybe the joy of that moment overshadowed the hurt.

If his father saw him now, like this, what would he think?

Would he still be proud?

One afternoon came back to him, a moment in the car. He could still see his father’s face in his mind as he spoke—smiling. A backdrop of mottled autumn leaves through the car windows. “Kiddo, really. It’s okay if you’re gay. I mean, as long as he’s Jewish.”

A quiet smile found Ferris’ face as he ran his thumb over the corner of the matte photo.

“Sorry, Dad,” he whispered. “He’s Catholic.”

“What’s in the box?” came Demos’ voice from the doorway. Ferris glanced up to see him re-dressed, running his fingers through his damp hair.

“Oh—“ Ferris set the photos aside, frowning at the box in question. “Like, five menorahs I got as bar mitzvah presents. My aunts and uncles aren’t—uh, creative gifters.”

Demos slumped down beside him, crossing his legs over the wooden floor. “Are you going to use all five?”

“I guess if I feel like burning the place down one day.”

“Well, warn me before you do that. I still have stuff to live for.”

Ferris looked over with a raised brow. “Stuff?”

“You, you idiot,” Demos said with a sigh. He reached down, lacing his fingers with Ferris’. “I want to live for you.”

For a moment Ferris didn’t speak, simply watching his partner with a quiet smile. His hand tightened, his fingers curling around Demos’ without any intention of letting go.

Demos returned the smile. “Something on your mind?”

“Yeah. I think I—“ Ferris paused, averting his eyes toward the stack of old photos. “I think I want to tell Mom. About us.”

“But—“

“I need to tell somebody,” Ferris said before he could protest. “It’s killing me. I’m—“ He let out a soft breath, his eyes tightening as he struggled to find the right words. “I’m just—really happy.”

Demos’ eyes softened and Ferris could feel his fingers clench back.

“You don’t think she’ll be upset?” he said softly.

“Well, she’s always wanted grandkids,” Ferris said with a shrug. “But I guess she’ll just have to deal.”

“Do you want me to be there?”

“No.” Ferris cringed at the thought. “No—she’s just going to drag you into the kitchen to shove every family recipe she’s ever used into your arms and then trick you into planning some kind of extravagant wedding.”

A light laugh escaped Demos’ lips. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“You’d—“ Ferris froze in place. “You’d want to?”

“Well, sure,” Demos said, tucking some hair behind his ear. “I know we couldn’t. I know it’s not an option. But it’s nice to think about, right?”

A sudden heat found Ferris’ face and he looked away, hoping it wasn’t noticeable. “Uh—yeah.”

“Can we stay here tonight?” Demos asked. His head bumped gently onto Ferris’ shoulder, leaning into him.

“If you don’t mind both of us cramming onto this mattress.” Ferris gestured behind them to the full size bed that was tucked against the wall. It was an awkward size for two—not quite a twin and not quite a queen.

“We used to, remember?”

“Well, I was a little shorter,” Ferris said. “Though—you’re about the same size as when you were twelve.”

“Fuck you,” Demos said, elbowing him in the side. “Mh—let’s get drunk and watch a movie.”

“On Manischewitz?” Ferris said, his tone dry. “Because that’s all Mom has.”

Demos waved a dismissive hand. “Ugh, fine. Let’s just make out then.”

“Oh, I see. Kissing me is your second choice? Your Plan B?”

“Oh my god,” Demos muttered as he dragged Ferris in closer. “Shut up.”

Whatever Ferris was about to say was cut off by the kiss. He couldn’t recall just how many times he had pictured it in that very room, nor how many times he had suppressed the thought. But he could never have imagined how right it seemed—how perfect those fingers felt wrapped between his own.

Ferris would never know exactly what his father would have thought of him now. But something told him he would give that smile he often did. The one that meant everything would be okay.

Something told him he would have been proud.

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#

This was the second, and hopefully the last time that Ferris had stepped foot in the Looking Glass. He and Demos had first visited in search of the ex-Chief Blakely, a venture that had proved fruitless in the end. But the venue was different now.

Gone was the crowd, the dancers, the flashing lights and pounding bass. The Marianis had emptied the strip club for this meeting, leaving the entire floor eerily quiet. Dim. They had been ushered into a back room with a long table surrounded by executive chairs—supposedly a board room. Still, Ferris found himself hesitant to touch literally any surface he came across.

At the head of the table sat Bruno Mariani, a man Ferris hadn’t seen since their meeting at the butcher shop. Last summer—it felt like ages ago. A few things had changed. Namely, Demos was no longer a kid tagging along in his grandfather’s shadow. He was a made man, and had earned his seat at this table.

Bruno was accompanied by a half dozen of his men, one for each Giorgetti present. To an outsider, it might have looked like an even arrangement. But Ferris knew better.

There was something awkward about the opening formalities. The offering of drinks, the passive aggressive remarks from the Marianis and the not-so-subtle arrogance from the opposite end of the table. But it didn’t take long for Bruno to get to the point.

“When Sandro never came home, you denied your involvement.” Bruno tapped his cigarette against a glass ashtray, keeping his eyes on Gino. “So what lie do you have for us this time, Blue? Now that Aldo is gone, too?”

“I made the call,” Victor said. Every eye in the room fell on the man as he spoke, his voice even—measured. “Aldo took two of our own. Will was our doctor for decades, Bruno. One we made a significant investment in. And Salvatore was a made man. It wasn’t something we could just let go.”

Bruno gave a low grunt, occupying his hands by taking a drag of his cigarette.

“If you had insisted on protecting DeSimone,” Gino said. “You know what that would have meant. For both of us.”

A cloud of smoke obscured Bruno’s face as he exhaled, a dour sigh followed by silence. Ferris could see the man’s eyes flickering as he digested Gino’s words. Such a thing would have led to a flat out war between the families—much like the one the Marianis had barely survived only five years prior. And Ferris could tell, just from Bruno’s expression, that the DeSimone brothers weren’t worth a war.

Finally, Bruno crushed out his dying cigarette with a snort. “Fine.” He glanced up, his eyes meeting Gino’s. “This is over.”

No further words were exchanged. No nods, no gestures. As bitter as Bruno seemed to be, it looked like he knew there was nothing else to be said.

Bruno’s men stood to escort the Giorgettis from the room, leaving the aging caporegime alone with his scotch glass and his ashtray.

Only a minute passed before the doors were thrown open once again. Bruno didn’t look up from his second cigarette, only flicking the lighter as the doors clacked shut.

“That was it?” Alonzo snapped, his hands balling into fists. “You just rolled over like a coward? I expected more from you, Bruno.”

Slowly, the man slid his lighter back into his suit pocket. “Bold of you to show your face with your brother so near.”

Alonzo only sneered. “He’s no brother of mine.”

“And you’re in no position to be shitting on my decisions,” Bruno said, leaning back in his chair.

“I came to you because I thought you were better.” Alonzo’s hands slapped flat onto the table as he leaned in, teeth grit and eyes burning. “I thought you had the balls that Gino was missing. Looks like you’re just as impotent as he is.”

Bruno observed the man before him, then flicked ash from his cigarette. “You haven’t got shit on the Giorgettis now. What good are you supposed to be?”

“I—“

“Consider yourself lucky. I’m this close to getting rid of you.” Bruno’s voice had darkened, a near rumble in the dim room. “Just like he did.”

“I got rid of him!”

“Funny.” A wry grin found Bruno’s face. “That’s not what I heard.”

For a moment Alonzo only breathed, each suck of air audible through his shuddering throat.

“I may not be useful to you—“ The edge of Alonzo’s lip curled, an upsetting smile behind slow, shaky words. “But you can still be useful to me.”

The gunshot was suppressed, but still pierced the air like a needle through cloth. Bruno’s cigarette dropped, ash scattering over the table as the man’s body slumped—head rolling back against the seat. A blotch of red pooled on the white fabric of his shirt, spreading over the site where his heart sat.

Alonzo slipped the handgun back into his jacket as he rounded the table. For a while he only watched the man die—patchy, labored breaths through a shrinking throat. Bruno’s eyes shook, glazing as he made his very last gasp, the very last beat of his heart, then stilled.

The thin smile held fast on Alonzo’s lips. He reached back into his jacket, this time pulling out a different item. This was no gun, no weapon. It was only a silk handkerchief, one of the purest, most impenetrable blue. It held no adornments, only two simple initials stitched tight into one corner. GG.

The cloth draped over Bruno’s face, obscuring his wide, unmoving eyes—lips that were already losing color.

“Sorry, Bruno.” Alonzo turned, adjusting the cuff of his jacket. His smile widened, set deep—a grim cut beneath the glint of his eyes. “It’s not over yet.”