Frank Zafiro: Blood on Blood

Fuck it. I’m following him. This was meant to be.

I can’t believe I wasted my time following Mick’s ass to St. Anthony’s. I mean yeah, this is where the funeral was for Gar and Mick’s whore mother, too, but like, so what?

I watch him go in.

I smoke one and wait.

Five minutes later he’s still in there.

Hey, I’ve come this far, so what the hell.

There’s no way I’m going to go waltzing in the big front doors unless I have to, though. I get out and walk to a side door next to a shaded outside sitting area with white stone benches. The door is unlocked and I take a peek inside real quick.

I don’t see much. The lights are way down but it didn’t look like anyone was around. I step in quickly and shut the door as quiet as possible. For a minute, I just stay right where I am, next to a pillar and half blocked from view. When my eyes adjust, I can see about three quarters of the pews from where I’m standing.

There’s maybe ten people sprinkled around in the pews, most kneeling and praying with their heads down. One of them whose head isn’t bowed is Mick about fifteen rows from the front. I’m looking at the back of his head but I know it’s him. He’s looking upwards. Ah yeah, the good Irish Catholic. Asking for forgiveness, no doubt.

I’m getting ready to walk out, but then he stands and walks down to the end of the pew row. Looks back up front, does a quick dip to one knee, then crosses himself.

I watch him come up the aisle towards the front doors but then he hangs a quick left and walks to two doors on the far side wall that lead to an outer hallway. He opens them and I see him head left again, farther into the church as the door eases shut.

I quickly decide to stay with him a little longer. Across the last row of pews I go and straight to those doors he just went through. I stick my head through the door and look left. The hallway is dark. The lights that are on are very low. I don’t see him but there are only four doors down there.

First door was a changing room. No Hero.

Second door is big and fancier. Has a brass plaque on it that says Columbarium. Like I know what the shit that even means. I open it slow and just an inch or two, looking through the wedge of an opening.

It’s Mick and his back is to me. There are heavy shelves lining the wall except there ain’t no books on them. The shelves are lined with urns. All shapes and sizes. A shitload of them too. There is an open spot, fourth shelf up from the floor, right in front of where Mick’s standing.

Okay, so now I know what the word Columbarium stands for.

I watch him for a second more, then step in.

“Who you stealing there, Hero? The old man or your mother?”

He whips around and glares at me. He’s got that crazy ass look again and he takes a step toward me.

“Get out.” His voice is low and dangerous.

“You could steal them both, one under each arm and just take them home with you. Have a nice family dinner together or something, huh? Watch a little TV? Be like old times.”

“Get the fuck out before I kill you.” He’s still got the urn but takes another step towards me. Then I notice he’s taken the lid off…what the shit?

“Damn Mick, you’re going to need a confession just for your language, let alone disturbing the ashes. You think you’re in a bar or what?”

He takes another step and then there’s that voice inside my head again. It whispers the answer to all of this. It just pops right it into my head. All of a sudden, I don’t think I know. I do know. Like I said back at the bank, it’s almost like this was all meant to be. Like this answer was given to me.

“Can’t do it, can you?” I smile at him.

That stops him in his tracks. I can see in the dim lighting that he’s been crying.

“That’s your mother, right?” I stop smiling now and get all solemn with him. “That’s where they are. You broke the seal open but you just can’t bring yourself to dig around in there or smash it and have the ashes go everywhere. Plus the earrings are hers and they’re with her. The old bastard gave them to her even though she was dead.”

Mick just gives me a blank look and stares down at the urn.

“Look Hero, believe it or not, I get that. I really do. I get that.” He looks back up at me and his lip curls up a little. He wants to believe what I’m saying but he doesn’t.

“Get out,” he says.

“I understand and I am getting out. Okay?”

He just glares at me.

I walk over and get the brass top of the urn off the shelf and come up to him with it.

“Here, put this back on. Put her back up there and let’s get the hell outta here. I’m serious. I’ll even buy you a drink, or ten.”

He backs away from me, but reaches for the lid and as his arm comes up and out, he shows me those banged up ribs again. The same ones I caved in earlier.

I throw a hard left hook and hit him right in that side again, right on the money. He goes down to one knee and yelps, then loses his grip on the urn and kind of fumbles it up in the air.

There’s ashes all over now but then he actually catches the damn thing. He cradles it upright and kicks out at me. Tries to scissor trip me from a squatting position but he’s hurting so bad there’s not much he can do.

I grab a good hold of the urn by the neck and put a foot on his shoulder. When I pull the urn and give him a hard shove with my foot, he just loses his grip and I’ve got it.

I walk to a chair and spill what’s left of the urn out onto it. The ashes and dust come pouring.

Nothing.

Then, there it is. A soft clink that comes from inside the urn when I turn it completely upside down. It’s like music to my ears.

They plop down into the ashes. Big, beautiful bastards. Huge, long earrings and there has never been a deeper, greener green than these jade beauties. Big ass diamonds on them too.

From behind me I hear him coming at me again, but he’s staggering around bad.

I take him down easy with a right that glances off his shoulder, then hits his chin but it still connects enough. Mick goes down hard and stays down, eyes pressed shut in pain. I look at him for a moment. He’s tough, I will give him that.

I walk quickly back to the chair and pick the earrings out of the dust. I blow them off some and then just hold them in my hand. I’m afraid I’ll bang them up in my pocket. That internal clock starts ticking loud again and it’s time to go. I head for the door.

“I’m going to kill you.” He hisses it from behind me but I don’t even look back or bother answering.

In the car, before I take off, I look at the gorgeous fuckers again, and then fold them up carefully in my handkerchief.

The future just got a lot brighter. I tell you one thing, what they call bling these days? It don’t have shit over these babies.

Mick

Rage.

I’ve heard about it. Thought I’d felt it. When I took the fall for Al and Harris, I spent time inside the jail at County. They put me in isolation to keep the other inmates from attacking me because I’d been a cop. I stewed in there, wishing revenge on those two, but knowing I’d done most of the damage to myself. I thought that was rage.

It wasn’t even close.

I knelt in the columbarium, drawing shallow ragged breaths and staring at the scattered ashes that used to be my mother.

And for the first time in my life, I knew rage.

The thing is, after Jerzy left the room with the diamonds, most of the hot rush I’d experienced subsided. My rage wasn’t red and intoxicating. It was white and calculating. And fearless.

I didn’t care about consequences any more. I cared about results. I was going to kill that motherfucker. The diamonds didn’t matter nearly as much as his existence leaving this earth.