Kealan Burke - Kin

“Most folks do until they get saddled with responsibility.”

Beau plucked two beer crates from beside the dumpster to their right, and set them down—one for himself, one for Finch. Glad to take the pressure off his aching knees, Finch nodded his thanks and lowered himself onto the crate, one hand against the wall to steady himself.

“Man, you’re in bad shape,” Beau said, laughing.

“You mean because of the beer, or otherwise?”

Beau joined him, their shoulders touching. “The beer,” he replied. “Not that I don’t think you ain’t messed up enough without it.”

Finch had to narrow his eyes to dissuade double vision. He hated being this drunk, and had only allowed himself to reach this point because of the euphoria it had promised, and which, for a brief spell, had delivered. Now though, he was sad, angry, and more than a little miserable, every speck of those feelings directed inward despite the availability of much better, more reasonable targets.

“I’m going to kill them, Beau,” he said, nodding slowly. “Every fucking one of them. And I don’t care what happens because of it. They had no right to do what they did.”

Beau sighed. “No, they didn’t. But if you’re hell-bent on lookin’ for fairness, you’re on the wrong damn planet.”

Finch squinted at him. “The fuck’s that mean? I know what the world’s like. Doesn’t make a goddamn bit of difference. Look at the World Trade Center. Thing comes down, the whole nation gets mad and demands justice. The President sends us in to kick the shit out of them. Now all of a sudden people are complaining about his choices, and no one’s demanding anything anymore other than that he wise the hell up.”

“What’s your point?”

“Point is, I’ve never seen a bigger tragedy than 9/11, and yet everybody not directly related to the victims seemed to get over it real quick.”

Beau shrugged. “It’s the nature of people, I guess. We’re designed to grieve and mourn, and do what we can to move on.”

Finch scowled. “Yeah? Well, not me.”

“Not you,” Beau echoed. He sounded resigned.

“Let me ask you something,” Finch said, straightening so he could appraise him. “If those terrorists hadn’t used planes…if instead they’d sat in their cars a few blocks away…say a dozen of them, and used remote detonators to set bombs off to bring those buildings down…”

“Yeah?”

“And after it was done…people discovered those guys sitting in their cars congratulating each other.”

Beau said nothing, waited for him to continue.

Finch did. “What do you think would have happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“Aw c’mon,” Finch said, throwing his hands up in disgust. “You know exactly what I mean. There wouldn’t be a cop within a thousand miles would raise an eyebrow over what would happen to those terrorists. Those fuckers would have been torn asunder by the people who found them, torn to goddamn ribbons like those poor bastards in Somalia last year, and not a judge in the whole country would make them accountable for it.”

“I don’t know about that, man.”

“Sure you do.”

“Okay, so say I do. Where are you goin’ with this?”

“A man catches someone attacking his wife. How does he react?”

“Gets pissed.”

“Yeah, he gets pissed, even if the attacker is twice his size and built like a tank, and even if he knows it will mean his death. Hell, if you were married, had kids, and found out someone was sleeping with your wife, or messing with your kids, you’d want to beat the living shit out of that guy, right?”

“Right.”

“And if those terrorists had been caught, instead of doing the kamikaze thing, the people there would have murdered them without a second thought. And why? Because they were there when it happened. They saw their world being violated, threatened, plundered in a day and age when we’re supposed to be safe, when everybody is supposed to be your friend and those who aren’t are too far away to be a danger. But if those enemies hurt you, threaten you, shatter your world and you see them do it with your own two eyes, or you can reach out and touch them, tell me, Beau, that you wouldn’t do what instinct told you to do before weighing up the consequences.”

He was out of breath, and incensed, the blood rushing through him, warming him against the cold. A dull ache throbbed in his temple.

After a moment, Beau sat back. “Yeah,” he said.

Finch looked at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’d tear ’em to pieces, along with anyone who tried to stop me, probably.”

“Then why, knowing what those guys did to Danny, are you trying to keep me from doing what needs to be done?”

It took Beau a long time to reply, but when he did, he looked squarely at Finch. “Because you’re my friend.”

Despite his inebriation, Finch was surprised. Not by the sentiment, but by the fact that Beau, a characteristically stoic man, had said it out loud. It moved him, perhaps a little more than it might have because he was drunk, but nevertheless he appreciated it.

“All the more reason for you to be behind me on this then.”

“I am behind you on it. You know that. I told you—”

“I know what you told me,” Finch interrupted. “And I know what you said, but I want you behind me one-hundred percent. Not because you know I think it’s the right thing to do, but because you agree with me.”

Beau looked annoyed. “So you want me to validate what you’re doin’, is that it? You want me to tell you I think murderin’ a bunch of people and maybe gettin’ yourself killed or sent to prison for the rest of your life is a spectacular idea I can’t wait to be a part of?”

Finch smiled grimly. “Something like that, but without the sarcasm.”

“Can’t do it,” Beau told him. “And if you really believed in what you aim to do, you wouldn’t need my approval, or care what I think.”

“Yeah, well…I do.”

“Why?”

Finch smiled. “Because you’re my friend.”

“Asshole. You read those printouts I put in the folder with the other stuff?”

“Sure. Veterans suffering from PTSD.”

“And?”

“And they came home, didn’t get the help they needed and went apeshit, shot a bunch of people before killing themselves. Is there a moral there I’m missing?”

“It fucks you up. War. Chews you up and spits you out. It’s one of the few places where you’re given free reign to act like a psychopath and then one day you’re standin’ on your lawn, maybe pickin’ up the mornin’ paper and suddenly you find yourself back there, lookin’ at the world through crosshairs. And you either run screamin’ for help you probably won’t get because there’s a mighty long queue, or go get your gun so you can keep fightin’.”

“Jesus… you need your own talk show, man. Seriously.”

Beau ran his palms over his bald head and sighed heavily. “I’ll go, all right? That’s as good as I’m givin’ you. I got your back. Whatever you need. But I’m not holdin’ your hand down there and I’m not going to be your goddamn cheerleader.”

Finch pursed his lips and nodded. “Too bad. You’d look good in the outfit.”

Beau rose. “No wonder half my brothers are on crack. Bet it makes it easier to listen to crazy white guys.”

There was silence then, but for the late night sound of slow traffic sizzling through the wet streets, water running down a drain, distant laughter as revelers headed home, the far-off drone of a plane delivering bodies eager for a night of sleep without turbulence. Beau stood there staring at the mouth of the alley, as if trying to decide whether or not it was time to leave. Instead, he turned, looked at Finch, and folded his arms.