Authors: Brent Coffey
“That’s a good looking fire truck you got there, pal. How about we build a road for it?”
Gina remained unmoved from her assigned seat on the sofa. She obediently watched Judge Conner, though doing so now felt like a chore. She broke out in goose bumps, when she heard the patio door open. Bill walked in, clearing his throat, coughing, and scratching his oversized gut through his strained undershirt.
“You ain’t started dinner yet?” he accused by asking. “The hell’s wrong with you?”
She didn’t speak, and she nodded with her head towards the hallway, trying to tip Bill off that he should cool it.
“You got something wrong with your neck?”
She shook her head no furiously.
For the love of God, Bill, please get with it!
she dictated via telepathy. No use. His intuition was as thick as ever.
“If you ain’t started dinner in the next five minutes,” he warned, letting loose a hearty beer belch, “I’m ordering takeout for me, and you can just sit on your ass and watch me eat.”
She palmed her face in frustration.
Bill was starting to feel the effects of six beers on an empty stomach, and his powers of discernment were now as empty as his six-pack. He opened the fridge, hunting for a pre-dinner snack, and, not finding anything appetizing, he settled for a slice of red cased bologna and shoved it in a wrinkled wad in his mouth, chewing around the casing. He slammed the fridge door, still pissed at Gina for not having dinner waiting for him. He leaned over the kitchen’s garbage can and spat out the meat casing.
“Guess I have to do everything around here,” he complained.
He made his way down the hall to take a leak, when he noticed August’s door ajar. He went to close it, mumbling to himself about how the damn kid had no respect and didn’t know his place around here, when he heard Gabe’s voice for the first time. He stopped in the hall, confused.
Why didn’t Gina mention there was company?
He slowly pushed the bedroom door open and saw the guy that he recognized as Gabriel Adelaide playing with a truck beside August. He rubbed his eyes and shut the door.
How much did I drink?
He rubbed his eyes again, in an effort to force them not to see what he’d seen the first time. He reopened the door.
“Nice to meet you,” Gabe said, standing up and extending his hand.
It was the most disturbing experience of Bill’s life. Not only had his wife not told him there was company, but she’d also failed to mention that their guest was New England’s Al Capone. Bill gawked at the hand offered to him as Gabe stood up, and he slowly backed out of the bedroom door, expecting that hand to grab him at any moment and choke the life out of him.
“Gina!” Bill called out. “Gina, call the cops!”
“Is there a problem here?” Gabe asked innocently.
“Get… get out of my house,” Bill said with all the courage he could muster as his knees grew weak.
“Alright, that’s fine. I’ll show myself to the door,” Gabe offered. “There’s no need to call the cops. Like I told your wife, I’m a free man. I had my day in court, I wasn’t convicted, and I’m not breaking the law by playing with your foster son. By the way, Gina agreed to let me take August out for a drive.”
Bill visibly recoiled when Gabe called August his foster son. August was no such thing. That kid was Gina’s responsibility, and he only tolerated the kid because Gina brought home enough beer from the kid’s check to keep him placated.
“You ain’t leaving, hot stuff,” Bill said, changing his mind about telling Gabe to get out. “You’re staying here until the boys in blue arrive.” It may have been the alcohol talking, but he was starting to feel ballsy, and his initial shock at finding a mobster in his home was giving way to intoxication’s bulletproof vest. He’d always wondered how he’d respond to one of these bastards in real life, and now he knew.
“That won’t be necessary,
Mr. Ringer
,” Gabe countered, emphasizing Bill’s last name and shooting him a glance that said
I know more about you than you think, and I’m in control here, so don’t fuck with me.
Gabe continued:
“I haven’t done anything that concerns the cops.”
Bill found himself at a loss for words.
Maybe I’m too damn drunk to think straight
,
but this guy’s kinda making sense. But it can’t possibly be the case that he can waltz into my home and leave without being arrested. What’s wrong here? A lot
, Bill decided.
A whole fucking lot’s wrong here
.
Bill saw the toys scattered on August’s floor, the same ones Gabe had been assembling into a road for the fire truck.
“Clean this shit up!” Bill snapped, holding August’s eye and sweeping a finger across the toys.
“There’s no reason to yell him. It was my idea to get the toys out, and I’ll clean them up.”
“No, you’re going to… to leave,” (Or was it stay until the cops arrived? Bill couldn’t decide. He was too drunk.) “And he’s going to clean this shit up! If he doesn’t, I’ll clean his clock!” Threatening August felt safer than threatening Gabe, and it was the booze’s meager attempt at reclaiming his home as his territory.
Gabe wasn’t itching for a shouting contest, and he didn’t want the police involved. He put away August’s toys, as Bill warily eyed him.
“There,” Gabe concluded, “that didn’t take long, and now you won’t have to clean anyone’s clock.”
Gabe started to walk past Bill, and Bill considered blocking his path but opted against it. Gabe was some twenty years younger and a hell of a lot fitter. Plus, God only knew what kind of heat Gabe was packing. Still, letting this guy, this punk, just come in his home and leave whenever he damn well pleased wasn’t sitting well. He wanted to take a stand against this good-for-nothing, but he didn’t dare push his luck. His threat to call the police was the only one he was willing to make. His blood boiled from shame when he realized that he wasn’t nearly as ballsy as he thought. With impotent rage, he kicked over August’s yellow tub of blocks and shouted at the boy:
“You got thirty seconds to clean this shit up or else!”
Gabe became furious with Bill’s clean-this-shit-up-bit. It didn’t take a psychic to figure out that removing August from the Ringers could only turn out positively for the kid.
“First of all, Mr. Ringer,” Gabe warned, “those are toys and not shit. Second, you’re the one who spilled them, so you’ll be cleaning them up.”
Bill sized Gabe up and reiterated his earlier conclusion: there was no way in hell that he could take him. But the alcohol wouldn’t let his wounded pride rest, and he was finally feeling drunk enough to bluff a fight.
“I’m not cleaning up anything, you son of a bitch,” Bill uttered, with hot cheeks blistering red. Bill balled up his fists like he used to in Nam, when he and the guys would kill time beating the hell out of each other and taking odds on the winners, hoping Gabe wouldn’t call his bluff and actually fight back. Gabe took in Bill’s fighting stance with a smirk.
The old tub of lard can’t be serious.
“Let me assure you, Mr. Ringer, I’m not looking for trouble. I came here to visit August, and I didn’t come to bother you. You wanted the toys picked up, and they were picked up. You wanted me gone, and I was on my way out. I’d already be gone, if you weren’t bullying a boy.”
Being called a bully enraged Bill even more.
You think you know what a bully is?
I’ll show you what a damn bully is
. And turning his back on Gabe (his first mistake) Bill swung a fist against the right side of August’s face, knocking out a baby tooth in the little guy’s lower gum (his second mistake).
August cried from the pain in his jarred head, spitting blood on the carpet from the hole where his tooth had been. Finished with diplomacy, Gabe decided that, yes, there was some shit that needed to be cleaned up, and it had just sucker punched a kid in the face. Gabe didn’t wait for Bill to turn around to face him. There was no need to fight fair with a guy who’d hit a kid… not even the mob stooped that low.
Gabe power kicked Bill in his back, driving him to his knees. Grabbing Bill’s head and pulling it up to waist height, Gabe slammed two fingers in Bill’s eyes, puncturing blood vessels. Bill screamed louder than August cried. Holding Bill’s head steady by what little hair remained on his balding head, Gabe introduced Bill’s face to a swift series of blows, shaking loose more teeth than Bill had knocked out of August’s mouth. When Gabe let go of his hair, Bill crumpled over to his right side, heaving and holding his aching head with both hands. A swift kick to the head sent Bill on all expenses paid vacation to Someplace-Other-Than-Conscious-Reality.
From her appointed seat in the living room, Gina visualized the violence as its soundtrack of chaos played. She heard August cry, then Bill scream, then Bill go silent while August continued crying. She didn’t dare get up from the couch. Moments later, she saw Gabe emerge from August’s bedroom, pulling the boy along by his arm. Blood ran down August’s chin and stained his shirt, he shed tears like he was mortally wounded, and he gripped Zoggy tighter than he ever had.
Oh my God! He’s hurt August and Bill!
she thought, fearing she was next. Gabe had to shout to be heard over August’s crying:
“Your husband assaulted a minor, and that’s a felony. I’m taking August, and I’m not bringing him back. If you call the police, your husband will go to jail. I know you receive $500 a month for watching August. You’ll keep getting those checks, if you don’t tell his social worker he doesn’t live here. And I’ll match those funds. You’ll make an extra $500 a month to let me take care of him, and you won’t have to lift a finger. Do we understand one another?”
She shook her head yes enthusiastically, partly relieved that Gabe was leaving without killing her and partly excited that she was now going to make twice the cash off of August while doing no work at all.
“I know Sara Madison stops by to check on him. Stall her until next month. By then, I’ll have thought of a way to deal with her. Got it?”
She eagerly nodded yes once more.
He walked out the front door, still pulling August along, and left her sitting idly on her couch to wonder what he’d done to Bill. Eventually, curiosity trumped her fear that Bill was now a corpse, and she made her way into August’s room. She saw Bill looking like he had earlier in the backyard, only this time he hadn’t passed out from a round of drinks. She felt her heart slow to a less anxious pace when she saw he was breathing. When he woke up, she’d tell him that Gabe had left and that Sara had stopped by and removed August from their home. She wouldn’t tell Bill about the extra cash Gabe was sending, and, since he was too lazy to check the mail, he’d never know about the money coming in for August. She smiled. From now on, he’d buy his own damn beer.
------------------------------------------------
Their eyes met, and neither knew what to say. Seated on a sofa with a loaded .45 caliber semiautomatic on the cushion next to him, Gabe had kicked off his shoes and taken his firearm out of his waistband. Another day done. August stood watching him, while Gabe propped his feet up on a small table in the poorest of his three apartments, an old and unassuming small place in Roxbury. He only stayed at this one when he wanted to avoid being seen.
“You okay?” Gabe asked casually, locking his hands behind his head to relax.
August didn’t reply. Gabe knew the kid’s background, and he wasn’t surprised by the kid’s shyness. The uncertainty of being with a strange man had overwhelmed the pain August felt from being socked in the jaw, and he’d clammed up. He wasn’t sure what he thought of Gabe. Gabe had defended him when Bill had bullied him, but he didn’t know why.
Gabe tried again:
“Are you okay after that asshole hit you?”
August’s look of confusion was his only response. He tried not to look at Gabe’s gun. He didn’t want Gabe to catch him looking at it. Too late.
“Would it help if I didn’t have this?” Gabe asked, pointing to his gun with his right hand. August still didn’t respond. Gabe decided to holster the gun anyway, placing it back in the waistband underneath his shirt.
“So,” Gabe began again, “you and me cool?”
August still didn’t respond.
“I guess it’s kinda hard for you to decide if we’re cool since you don’t my name,” Gabe reasoned, answering his own question with a laugh. “Name’s Gabriel Adelaide, but you can call me Gabe. Everyone does. Come to think of it, it’s been a while since I’ve had to introduce myself. But I guess you’re too young to watch the news.”
Gabe noticed a forced look of concentration come over August, like he was about to do something he didn’t want to but had to. August began to visibly tremble. He slowly lifted his fists to cover both eyes and, not looking at Gabe, he whispered, “Hello, my name is August. Pleased to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, August.”
August spoke again, still hiding his eyes behind raised fists: “Nice to meet you, Mr. Gabe.”
“You don’t have to call me that.”
“What?”
“You don’t have to call me Mr. It’s just Gabe.”
“Sorry.”
“No need to apologize. Are you hungry?”
“No,” August lied. He’d been told not to take food from strangers, but he was tempted to let Gabe get him something to eat. Gabe had picked him up before Bill could finish “relaxing” and before Gina could feed him canned ravioli.
“Thirsty?”
“No,” he lied again.
“We’ve got some time to kill. How about we watch TV? And I’m going to eat something even if you don’t.”
Gabe flipped through stations until he found a cartoon and then went into the kitchen, leaving August alone in the apartment’s small living room. August slowly took his hands off his eyes, and, opening them, turned away from the sofa and towards the TV. Even though one of his favorite shows was on,
Three Blind Mice,
he couldn’t enjoy it in the presence of a stranger. Especially one with a gun. But he felt obligated to watch, since Gabe had clearly turned the program on for him. As he stood watching TV, he heard a microwave bell go off in the kitchen. He hoped Gabe knew that he’d missed dinner and insist that he eat… True, he wasn’t supposed to take food from a stranger, but if the stranger insisted that he eat, well, he also wasn’t supposed to disobey an adult, and he’d gladly follow the last rule in this moral dilemma.
If only he’d figure out I’m hungry and make me eat
.
Gabe returned with a TV dinner. He sat on the sofa and began eating. It wasn’t the fine dining that his life as a mobster had conditioned him to, but it was hot and it was food. And with August around, he didn’t want to eat at his usual haunts. As he ate, he watched August watch TV. August didn’t move, and he didn’t indicate if he enjoyed the show. Gabe started to feel a little sorry for him. He wanted to say something that would put him at ease:
“You can sit on the sofa if you want.”
August turned and looked at him, then looked back at the television, and then looked back at him.
“Yeah, come on, man. You don’t wanna stand there watching TV. That’s no fun. Have a seat.”
“Okay.”
From the corner of his eye, Gabe saw August eyeing his food as he climbed on the sofa. Without saying anything, Gabe went back into the kitchen and warmed up another frozen meal. Moments later, he returned and, handing the meal and a fork to August, simply said, “Here.” August interpreted the offer as a command to eat and chewed away. Both acted interested in the show, because it was easier than making conversation, until Gabe felt obligated to say something:
“I normally don’t crash here. I usually stay at my place in Back Bay, but I figured I’d lie low for a while… until we figure things out.”
He studied August for a reaction and found none.
“I hope you aren’t pissed at me for taking you from your foster parents,” Gabe said.
August mechanically shook his head no, but it seemed like a dutiful response.
“I’m taking you to the Hudsons. You remember them, right?”
Surprised, August answered, “Yes.” He remembered visiting their home, before it was decided that Bruce couldn’t adopt him.
“Well, I’m not exactly taking you. I’m going to put you in a taxi and send you there. They’ll take care of you once you arrive. I’ll send you with some cash, so you’ll have a little blow money. You might want some stuff that other kids at your new school have, and it’s always nice to keep up with the Joneses. Come to think of it, you’re probably too young to know what that means… ” he paused, unsure how to explain “keeping up with the Joneses.” Searching for a new topic, he heard the muffled sound of a child resisting a good cry. Still pretending to watch TV, Gabe’s peripheral vision confirmed that August was quietly crying as he ate and trying very hard not to.
August may not have understood keeping up with the Joneses, but he understood “new school” and “being too young” and that he was about to live with a couple who he’d only met once and be shipped off by himself to get there. And it was all becoming too much for a kid who unexpectedly found himself in the care of a stranger with a gun. He didn’t miss the Ringers, but he missed the familiarity of their home, the sense that he was supposed to live with them, and the warmth that Sara’s visits gave him. He suddenly missed everything he’d owned, the few toys and clothes he had. He tried harder not to cry and ended up crying harder.
“Hey, there. Did you burn yourself? Is the food too hot?” Gabe asked.
August shook his head no, fighting tears and not wanting to talk.
“What is it? Don’t ya like Salisbury steak and gravy?” Gabe tried again.
Determined not to disappoint or (worse!) anger this adult by wasting food, August jabbed at his half warmed meat through choked sobs, and he overestimated his coordination and tipped the plastic carton upside down, spilling the entire TV dinner onto his lap. August may not have known Gabe, and he was more than a little scared of Gabe’s gun, but all that temporarily ceased to matter, because August felt alone and confused and he’d just spilled food on himself.
Gabe wasn’t expecting August to hug him, bury his face in Gabe’s chest, and cry scared tears into his shirt. Surprised, Gabe didn’t know how to respond. He’d never been hugged by a kid before. Usually, his only thought about kids was that they were “off limits” on contracts put out to kill their meddlesome parents. Not killing kids was as close as Gabe had ever been to being affectionate with them. He didn’t know what to do about this hugging business, and he gladly would’ve chosen killing someone as an alternative to this hug, a much more comfortable task. Seconds passed, and Gabe noticed that it didn’t matter that he wasn’t hugging back, August shook with fear, and he still held on. Gabe suddenly felt out of control.
Gabe didn’t want to admit that he liked August. He’d told himself that he was only concerned about August being adopted by the Hudsons, because… what had he told himself? He’d refused to ask himself,
Why
am I helping August find a home?
He’d tried not to think about why he was helping. He’d tried convincing himself that he didn’t need a reason to help the kid. If he fucking wanted to do something, then he fucking did it. Period. End of story. And he fucking wanted to help the Hudsons adopt this kid. Period. End of Story. He didn’t owe anyone an explanation for what he was doing, not even one to himself. Except… his restless mind would no longer let him follow blank orders. Not after this hugging business. All the effort that he’d recently put into not thinking about why he was helping August flooded back to him. He’d drank more, smoked more, ate more, golfed more, anything and everything’d more to keep his mind too busy to contemplate why he so desperately wanted to help the boy.
Until now, his constant activity allowed him to get away with his mindless behavior. He’d been able to spy on August, send him toys, threaten and bribe a social worker so she’d allow him to be adopted, and all that without ever asking himself
What the hell do I care about an orphan who’s never going to make me a single dime?
(Or)
Shouldn’t I oppose the Hudsons’ efforts to adopt this kid since Bruce Hudson tried to put me away?
Whenever similar thoughts threatened him about the nameless feeling in his gut (compassion? empathy?) he killed them with booze and business before they could reach his head and force him to think about his involvement in the kid’s life. But, now, sitting on this sofa with that same kid, the kid wearing pants covered in Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes still frozen in the middle, he hadn’t had a chance to drink or smoke or eat or golf or anything else to keep his mind from recognizing that the weird emotion in his gut was concern of some sort. August had hugged him too quickly for Gabe to avoid dealing with all the buried emotions that instantly sprung to mind.
You Care
flashed across the projector screen in Gabe’s brain, as he sat holding his TV dinner and staring down at the boy crying into his shirt. Before he could shake away the first unwelcomed message, the thought completed itself with
You Care About Him
. The past several weeks of distracting busyness hadn’t killed the part of his brain that sent out explanations for what he was feeling. He’d only delayed the telegram. Finally, his subconscious had beaten him to the draw. He had to recognize what he didn’t want to.
“Hey, man, you want some more food? I’ll get you more. It’s no problem,” Gabe offered. “I mean,” he fumbled for words with a laugh, “there’s no use crying over spilled milk. Or, in this case, spilled beef, right?”
His attempt to lighten the mood wasn’t working. He shut his eyes, put a spread hand across his furrowed brow, and shook his head violently to shake away the message
Hug Him Back Dumbass!!!
shining in mental fluorescents so bright that the words in his head could practically be seen on the TV he’d been watching. He didn’t want to do it. He couldn’t remember the last time that he’d hugged someone.
Except. Yes, he could. He could remember the last time he’d hugged someone. He and his mom had just come back from the grocery store…
She dropped both armloads of sacked groceries on the table.
“I got us a couple of pizzas here. They were bogo!” Debby laughed, using their phrase for Buy One Get One.
“Bogo!” Gabe yelled back.
“Bogo like a pogo!” they said in unison jumping up and down, laughing.
“Make the sausage pizza tonight!” Gabe shouted.
“Alright, my little man. Sausage pizza it is.”
And then, without another word, she bent over and hugged him tight. She held him for several seconds, letting the warmth of her love flow through him. She kissed him on his right cheek and then on his head, running her fingers through his hair. He felt like he could burst with joy. His mom loved him. She took care of him. And tonight she was cooking him sausage pizza, his favorite. There was nothing unusual about this moment. She often hugged him, and she always made dinner. But, for some unknown reason, this hug and the anticipation of tonight’s sausage pizza carved itself into his permanent memory. He’d be able to recall this moment for the rest of his life and sometimes be forced to recall it.
------------------------------------------------
Gabe knew that if he could ever be fingered for his crimes, he’d be up shit creek without a paddle. Looking at the kid sleeping on his couch and snuggling with a stuffed zebra, he no longer cared if he went up that creek. He thought about how August’s life would turn out with Bruce and Martha, especially with Bruce.
He’ll probably make a lawyer out of him
.
Like father like son I suppose.
Sipping coffee, he remembered being told by his associates that Bruce was a Red Sox fan, that Bruce liked to golf and fish, that Bruce had many pals on the force, that Bruce was a regular at Rocky’s on Boylston Street where he shot the shit with the bar’s regulars, and that Bruce had been faithful to his wife of thirty years. His goons had done their homework on Boston’s D.A. during his trial. There weren’t any skeletons in Bruce’s closet. No bribes, no whores, no substance abuse problems.
The guy’ll probably make a swell dad
. As much as he wanted to hate Bruce, as much as his mobster reflexes told him emphatically that he should hate Bruce, he hadn’t been able to hate the guy. Not after he’d learned about Bruce and Martha’s attempt at adopting August. Not after he’d learned about August not having parents.