Part One: Gin
The joint is dimly lit, occupied by lost souls finding solace in the demon drink. On stage, a sultry woman in black sings a folksy song about isolation, the lyrics resonating with everyone here.
I walk to the bar, order my usual. Gin and tonic. Tonight, I'm tying one on because my wife, Cassandra, is back home yearning for a child. I ain't got the balls to tell her no, so a few drinks oughta help. The idea of creating sentient life to throw out in this world puts a cavernous pit in my stomach, a pit that only grows every time she brings this up, or when I ponder the current state of things.
The bartender, a raw-boned man with a receding hairline slides my drink over, an inquiring look in his eye. "One of them days, huh?" He says.
I take a drink. "Yep, one of them days..."
"Man of few words, I see."
"Don't talk less' I got something to say."
"Well, alrighty then, hope it works out. You welcome to stay as long as you need."
"Obliged."
Huh, guess I had a shit poker face. How many times has he asked that question? In this town, one of them days seems like everyday.
This happens when I drink, old memories decide to come rushing in. You drink to forget certain things, but my brain won't allow that and I begin to ruminate on my past life. Like how I was born into deep poverty, having to sleep in shit-hole motels for my developmental years, or how I had to watch my family suffer due to their skin color. Our access denied to restaurants, schools, pools, hell, even fucking water fountains. My momma, Jean, was always a nervous wreck with all that, especially when a few walks down main street resulted in some hideous insults. That poor woman, man... I remember when she used to warn me about the white hoods patrollingi the town at night.
My father, though, he refused to tolerate any bullshit. If someone from that backwards ass town came at him starting shit, he'd damn sure finish it. One morning, in 1955, this slob of a man, whom I had seen mad dogging us earlier in the cereal aisle, came up to us in the parking lot of Minimax. We had been loading groceries, when he starts to spout all this shit, talking about we don't belong here and we should go back to where we came from. Typical racist shit. My old man tried his best to remain calm, mumbling words I did not hear under his breath. But then the man said that word, the word my father had heard all his life, the word that triggers so much dormant trauma. "You wanna say it again?" My father said, face red, fists clenched.
The fat man gave an obnoxious laugh, his yellow stained shirt lifting over his hairy belly. "You ain't gonna do shit, boy."
Standing there at ten years old, I was terrified of losing my father because of some bullshit drama. "Dad, let's go, please!"
He walked to the slob and threw a devastating haymaker, collapsing him to fresh pavement. He writhed in pain, holding his bloody mouth, a few bloody teeth were by my shoe. He tried to speak. "You... fuck..." Father shook the sting out his hand, before kicking the man in the head, rendering him unconscious. I was paralyzed in the moment. "Aw, Dad, you--"
"Quit lookin' at the fucker, Wayne, get in the car."
When we pulled into the driveway, he turned to me with a look of detachment. "Don't tell your ma bout' this. She'd never understand."
He used to tell me experiences made the man, that they mold him into what he'll become for the rest of his days. I'll never forget his face when I asked about his time in the pacific theater. We'd been playing catch in the back when I said, "Pa, you ever kill anyone in Japan?" He dropped the ball, his face lost color, his eyes were full of haunt. Silence lingered in the October air. "No. Let's talk about something nicer."
Years later, in Nam', I realized the hard way what his face meant. My father came back from war a changed man. Sure, he still loved and provided for us, but he was changed, became more distant as the years went on. I wonder if that was a worse fate than death. If he were alive today, what would he think of me?
By my fifth or sixth drink, I start falling deeper into self. And it's hopeless. There's no way of explaining this to Cassandra. Despite all she's been through, I envy her ability to remain optimistic. She's the type to believe a good, proper dialogue is the way to solve troubles. But she's oblivious to my other life, the things I've seen, the things I've done. God forbid if she ever found out. I can picture the scenario now: Cassandra crying, police cruisers outside the house, and then my ass strapped to Ol' Sparky. Fatherhood is simply out of the cards for me.
The woman in black starts her next song; it's about a woman in ruins. "Hope you enjoy this number," her soft voice says. Her guitar weeps throughout the dive in a haunting melody. I try to insert myself in the lyrics, even though they are deeply introspective, I swear I'm the subject. I'd shed some tears, but every other miserable drunk in here probably thought the same thing. As her voice rises for the closing lyric, my finger starts to swirl in the gin. Maybe hypnosis is what I need to anesthetize these thoughts. The gin ain't helping.
My other life enters the bar, wearing an outfit purchased with blood money: a brown leather jacket and corduroy jeans. His long hair is slicked back and even though it's nine o' clock at night, he has on a pair of mirrored aviators. His name is Lucas Cole.
He looks at me and motions his finger towards a booth in the back, a perfect area for the conversation I think we're about to have. Luke puts his aviators in his collar, as we sit at the booth.
"How'd you know where to find me?" I ask.
He pulls a cigarette from his jacket pocket. "Frankie told me this was your spot. Personally, I prefer blondies over on main, although it has gotten a little white trash over the years. This place seems decent, miserable as all fuck, but decent."
"I just needed to get out of the house for a bit, clear my head."
"Cassandra? She's been giving you shit?"
I down the last of my drink. "Something like that, sure."
"Huh. "Well, these things always work themselves out. Shit, you know how many times Lera has bitched at me?"
My gaze shifts to the goat head mounted above us. "Maybe. You said Frankie told you I was here? You got something for me?"
He grins and pulls a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. He slides it to me. "Was feeling bored at home, felt like delivering this one personally," he says.
The paper contains two names and an address: Charlie and Amelia Rollins, 838 Ottoman Lane. "Who are they?" I ask.
"Just a couple of crank heads who've been selling on claimed turf. They're associated with the Blood Patriots. Joe wants to send a message."
I put the paper in my pocket. "Anything else?"
"Nah, that's it. Just do what you do best. I put the resources in your car."
I rise from the booth, adjust my military jacket. "You still got that extra pack of smokes?" "Yeah, sure."
He throws me a fresh carton of cigarettes, Matterhorn.
"Thanks. I'll call you when the job is done."
"Can't wait."
Before I leave, I put thirty bucks on the bar. The bartender gives a thankful nod and smiles.
Driving away, feeling buzzed, drinking didn't do a damn thing. I'm still thinking about this hypothetical kid. All the gin did was make these thoughts more rampant. At an absurdly long red light, I peak into the bag Luke left on the passenger seat. A colt M1911, fitted with a suppressor, rests inside, the serial number filed off. Also, there are photographs within an envelope, pictures of my targets, along with written pieces of additional Intel. When I left, I told Cassandra I'd be back soon, but that was a goddamn lie, and maybe deep down she knows that. Tonight, I'm going to kill a man and his wife, and maybe that's exactly what I need to clear my head.
Red becomes green.
