Frank Zafiro: Blood on Blood

I shrug and tuck the bundles into my jacket pocket. “Get me past your soldiers, Patrik. I got serious work to do.”

With that we walk back through the hallways and backroom, arriving back out at the bar. He takes me behind the bar and walks me right up to Ania, introduces me and tells her in Polish to give me whatever I want, on the house. He pats her on the ass and walks away. I’m home free. She nods at me and gives me a little smile. I smile back. I’m fuzzy headed as hell and I don’t care if the vodka’s working its magic, she looks damn good. There’s an open stool at the very end of the bar, right where I like to be. Nothing worse than sitting in between people. I slip around the bar and take a seat.

Since my buddy Kos took off a little early, I’m gonna concentrate on the business at hand. His twinky ass can wait. I’ll find him one of these nights.

I wave at Ania, all shy and everything. She flips her hair a little and comes over smiling.

Gonna be a long night.

Mick

The light on my answering machine was flashing when I got home. That’s me — the alarm clock barely works, but the answering machine is in perfect order. Like anyone ever calls.

But someone did, apparently.

I shrugged off my coat and dropped it on the back of the dining room chair. I took two steps and was in what passed for my bedroom. A shrill beep sounded when I pushed the button. No high tech computer voices for me. Just old school, lucky you got me and I ain’t broken, technology.

The message began without preamble. “Mr. Sawyer, this is Doctor Bradford. I’m the senior attending physician at Columbia Correctional Facility in Portage, Wisconsin.”

I froze.

“As you probably already know, your father, Garnett Sawyer, is incarcerated here.” He paused a second, then forged on. “He’s sick, Mr. Sawyer. And I’m afraid it is terminal. He asked me to call you so that you can come to say goodbye.”

Son of a bitch.

“You can come whenever you’re able. The facility has visiting hours, but I’ve put in for an exemption due to his condition, so you’ll be able to see him as soon as you arrive.” He paused again. “I’d recommend coming soon. He doesn’t have very long.”

There was another pause, then a click. The machine beeped and went silent.

I stared at it. That son of a bitch.

I wanted to be furious, but after the fight with the Czechs and the up and down of Connie’s bullshit, all I felt was a cold ache. Maybe it was all the pain I could muster on the old man’s behalf. Or all the anger.

Mostly, I stared at the answering machine in disbelief.

“You always told me never to ask you for nothing,” I said. I was surprised to hear a small croak in my voice. “You said that was ‘cause you’d never ask me for nothing, neither.”

The red light of the answering machine stared back at me, unblinking.

“Guess you lied, huh?” I shook my head. “Well, it wouldn’t be the first time.”

More than anything, I wanted that to be the end of it. Fuck it. Let the old man rot. He’s the one that had to bust town to avoid a beef. He’s the one who got pinched for a born-to-lose style convenience store rip over in Calumet City, just over the border into Wisconsin. When was the last time I saw him? Fifteen years ago?

“How many fucking letters did you send?” I asked aloud.

Not a one.

“You think I liked living with Jerzy and his fucked up clan?”

Like he cared.

So now that he’s dying, suddenly I’m supposed to care? How does that work?

The answer was a simple one. Press delete and watch the red light go off. Let the old man die in prison where he’s been rotting for a decade and a half anyway. Go back to work. See who Eddie hires in place of Connie. Maybe take up with her. Hell, maybe she’ll be worth it.

See? Easy.

Except family ain’t that easy when you’re brought up Irish Catholic.

“Fuck,” I muttered.

I put my coat back on and left the apartment.

The columbarium was dimly lit and quiet. I hadn’t been to the church since the day of her service. I’ve never been inside this room with all of the urns on ledges in the wall. But the little book outside the doorway listed her name and the location of her ashes, so it was easy enough.

The little plaque read “Sawyer, Margaret” and her dates were listed below. Above it, the urn sat on a shelf. The cornflower blue and white design looked like it was made of marble. It should be for what it cost. That was one thing I guess I had to thank the old man for. He may have fucked up a lot of things, but when my mother died, he took care of her right.

A tiny gold crucifix leaned against the front of the urn. I know they make those things by the tens of thousands, but I was pretty sure where this one came from. The old man used to wear one, but he quit after Ma died. Now I knew where it went.

“So what?” I whispered, and ran my hand through my hair. “He took care of her one day out of her life and I’m supposed be grateful?”

Yes.

I could almost hear my mother’s soft lilting voice say the word. And that would be her answer, wouldn’t it? That even if he only gave her one day, that I should repay that day somehow.

Yes.

And I probably would, too. Because I was always the “good” son, right? The one who didn’t skip school four days out five. The one who treated his mother with respect. The one who didn’t fight unless someone brought the fight to him. The one for who “he got picked up by the cops” meant that I was hired by the CPD, not stuffed in the back of a patrol cruiser and shuffled off to jail.

Yeah, that was me. A source of posthumous pride for my dead mother and embarrassment for my incarcerated father.

Until.

I took a deep breath and let it out. The sound echoed throughout the quiet of the stone-walled room. Most of the time, I liked the quiet. But not when it was screaming at me like it was right now.

Until.

Yeah, until I was about seventeen months into being a cop. Then I did the old man proud, huh? Not only busted off the job, but caught a felony with a real jail sentence, too. And best of all, I kept my mouth shut. Didn’t rat off my sergeant or my partner, even though both of them were way deep into the situation that I took the hit for.

I always wondered how the old man would look at that. Or my brother, for that matter. The code of the street was simple. You didn’t say shit. You took your lumps. There were no exceptions. Even if there were exceptions, if you ratted someone out, you could expect the reputation and the repercussions no matter what. I guess the exceptions just made you feel better about yourself.

But there was another rule, too. That the police were pretty much the enemy. You had to find a way to co-exist, but never forget that they were on the other side of that line. So if I had ratted out those cops that I worked with, would that have made me some kind of fucked up folk hero?

I reached up and traced the letters of my mother’s name. The plastic nameplate was cool on my fingertips. An empty space waited next to her for Gar’s urn.

Hero? Nah. I just would’ve been doubly hated. Once for being with the cops and again for being a rat. At least by keeping my mouth shut, I kept some sense of street integrity intact.

But what would the old man say? Or Jerzy? That I should’ve said fuck ‘em and looked out for number one? Or keep to the code?

“Who cares?” I said, and my voice was louder than I expected. It echoed throughout the chamber like a somber pronouncement.

“Who cares about what, my son?”

The voice surprised me, but I kept from jumping. That came from years on the street. You can’t look surprised or scared, or you’re flat out fucked.