Detours and Dead Ends

by Janine Infante Bosco

  “Times Square, you idiot.”

  “The people here are really fucking rude,” he says.

  “Listen, there’s a Chevy’s over there. Go inside, order a fucking glass of water and I’ll be there in a little while to pick you up.”

  “Are you hanging out with the bikers? Tell Mr. Wolf I said what’s shaking.”

  “What the fuck did you drink?”

  “A little of this, a little of that.”

  “Do as I said,” I grunt. “I’ll be there soon.”

  “What did you say?”

  Fucking Robert.

  Disconnecting the call, I pocketed my phone and stared across the table at my mom.

  “Robert is in town?”

  “Mom…”

  “Eric, it’s fine,” she whispers. “Go get your friend.”

  “He can wait.”

  “Robert in the big city? He’ll get mugged in ten minutes.”

  This was true.

  “How am I supposed to leave you after you just told me your sick?”

  “I’ll still be sick tomorrow and the day after that too,” she sighs. “Stage four brain cancer doesn’t go away son, and honestly, I don’t feel like facing that just yet.”

  “Stage four?”

  “The doctor says I have six months.”

  “Six months is nothing,” I rasp.

  “It’s something,” she whispers, wiping her eyes. “It’s another detour.”

  No, it’s not.

  It’s another fucking dead-end.

  Six

  The thing about detours is that they’re not always yours. Sometimes, someone else gets derailed and suddenly, you’re not traveling the path alone. If I was a good friend, I would’ve told Robert to go back to Connecticut. I would’ve informed him there was nothing here for him. I mean anyone in their right mind would see how foolish he was being, pissing away a fortune only to struggle like the rest of us. However, I sold him a dream.

  I made him believe leaving his mother and his millions was the best decision of his life. I offered him a job at Pipe’s garage and told him he could stay with me and mom at the apartment. So, what if he couldn’t tell the difference between a wrench and a crowbar. And what did it matter if I spent most of my nights at the clubhouse?

  My mother was dying.

  Dying.

  And I didn’t know what to do.

  Being an only child never bothered me, neither did not having a father—until the idea of not having a mother either loomed over my head.

  If I didn’t have my mother in my life, I had no one.

  Sure, one might argue I had my club, but they didn’t know my life. They didn’t know the struggles me and my mother endured. They knew Bones, the tough as fuck kid who wouldn’t think twice before breaking someone’s jaw.

  The only one who knew me was Robert and if there was ever a time when I needed his friendship it was then. Looking back, I don’t know if I could’ve cared for my mom without him. He stepped up to the plate the minute I told him she was dying and instead of exploring the city or living it up, he helped me care for her.

  He stayed with her when I had to go to work, kept her laughing when she felt like crying, and at night when I would watch her sleep, he kept me company. As I watched the rise and fall of her chest, he would talk about my mom. It was one thing for me to love her, she was my mom. It was another to see how much he did too. I guess that’s what happens when you’re starving for your mother’s affection, you find it in another source. I’m just happy he found it in my mom. There is a certain comfort that comes from knowing there is another person in this world who knew her heart and loved her just as much as me. That there is another person in this world who appreciated her.

  Another person who won’t let her memory die.

  My mom passed away three days shy of the six months the doctor gave her. She died in her own bed, with me and Robert at her side and just before she drew her final breath she took both our hands and whispered, “Take the detour.”

  Seven

  “Of all the names you could’ve come up with, you choose Riggs?” Robert barks.

  “What’s wrong with Riggs?” I question, watching as he installs some sort of state-of-the-art security system in the garage—you know in case someone should decide to rob a fucking tire iron or something.

  “It doesn’t make me sound like a badass,” he argues.

  “Says the guy fiddling around with a camera,” I point out.

  “Well, we all can’t be bone crushers,” he says, pushing his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose.

  “What’s the deal with the shades?”

  “They make me look cool.”

  “Is that really what we’re going with?” I question, popping off the top of a beer. Lifting the neck of the bottle to my mouth, I cover the smirk. A few weeks after my mother’s passing, Robert finally started to find his groove in New York. He ditched his polos for a pack of Hanes fitted tees and instead of ironing his jeans, he took a pocket knife to them. Dipping into his savings, he bought a fresh pair of Nike Air Force Ones for everyday of the week to add to his collection of Ray Ban’s. You would never know the guy was once an ascot-wearing prince of an oil company. He slummed it just as good as the rest of us.

  The only thing he was missing was a Harley and a leather vest.

  “What’s all this shit?” Jack Parrish grunts, stepping inside the office. “Oh, fuck, this guy is still here?” he mutters, pointing to Robert. “What’s his name again?”

  “Rob—er, I mean Riggs,” I answer, straightening up in my chair.

  There are few men in this fucking world I fear, and this crazy son of a bitch has easily become one of them. One minute he’s a teddy bear, calling an ice-cream truck to the compound for his daughter and Wolf’s three sons to raid, the next he’s a fucking animal, slicing throats and tapdancing on graves.

  “Hello, Mr. Bulldog,” Robert greets, hopping off the ladder. Flashing him a cocky grin, he pulls a remote control from his back pocket. “This shit, sir, is a state-of-the-art security system. I’ve wired it so that you and Mr. Pipe can check the footage from your phones at any time. All you have to do is download the app.”

  “The what?”

  “Here, let me see your phone.”

  Lifting my t-shirt to cover my mouth, I hide my grin as I watch Jack produce a flip phone from his cut. You can take the polo shirt from the geek, dress him up in denim and shove a pair of glasses on his face but he’s still a geek.

  “What is that thing?” he asks, sounding mildly horrified.

  “What the fuck does it look like?”

  “Honestly, that looks like something Fred Flintstone carried back in the Stone Age,” he says, taking the phone from Jack. “Haven’t you heard of an iPhone?”

  “Have you heard of my fist?”

  “Is that the new Samsung?”

  Unable to hold it back, I laugh out loud and both Jack and Robert glare at me.

  “I’m sorry,” I mutter in between chuckles.

  “Is this the clown you're vouching for?” Jack snarls.

  “Sir, I assure you I’ve never been part of the traveling circus. In fact, I have never been to the circus.”

  “Stop calling me sir.”

  “Right, of course, that’s not very badass, is it? Mr. Bulldog sounds vicious.”

  “I’m going to kill this fuck.”

  “You can’t kill him,” I argue.

  “And why the hell not?”

  “Because he’s family,” I say simply. “You ever see National Lampoons Christmas Vacation? Just think of Riggs as cousin Eddie.”

  “You know I liked you up until now,” Jack says, staring at Riggs. “Give me back my phone.”

  “I highly recommend a trip to Verizon.”

  “And I highly recommend you shut your mouth before I shoot your tongue off.”

  “Well, now, I think I’ll just say this—” His words get cut off when Jack pulls out his gun and cocks it at him. �
�There’s no need to get hostile. I’ve heard there are programs for anger management. Maybe I can look some up on the internet—”

  “I’m not angry.”

  “You’re pointing a gun to my face. If you’re not angry, what are you?”

  “Fucking crazy.”

  Fact.

  Before the Bulldog goes manic and Robert gets shot, I stand and grab Robert by the back of his shirt.

  “We’re going to head out,” I say over Robert’s head.

  “Good idea,” Jack growls, tightening his finger around the trigger.

  “Call if you need me.”

  “How’s he going to call you on that thing?” Robert questions.

  “Would you shut the fuck up?” I hiss, dragging him out of the garage.

  Once we’re in the parking lot, I release him and cross my arms against my chest.

  “Dude, what the fuck are you trying to do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’re never going to let you prospect if you keep acting like a putz.”

  “Is that some New York slingo?”

  “Lingo,” I grunt.

  “Potato, po-tat-oh,” he scoffs.

  “Come on,” I order, reaching into my jeans for the keys to one of the cages I was working on. Starting for the van, I pause to make sure Robert is following. Of course, he’s not. “Today, princess.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To the shooting range. If you’re going to survive this fucking shit, you need to learn how to fire a gun. No one gives a fuck if you can wire a camera system but if you’re a straight shooter, you’re as good as gold.”

  “So, what you’re saying is you’re going to teach me how to be a criminal?”

  Well, shit, when he puts it that way…

  “I’m going to teach you how the fuck to defend yourself.”

  “So, next time Mr. Bulldog pulls a gun on me, I pull one on him.”

  “Fuck no.”

  “I’m not understanding.”

  “Get the fuck in the van, Robert—and from now on, I’m not calling you Robert anymore.”

  “Oh, splendid! Should I call you Bones instead of Eric?”

  “For fucks sake,” I hiss.

  I think I liked him better when he was six and wanted to duel in a fencing match. At least then I didn’t have to worry if his big trap would get us both killed by a bunch of bikers.

  Eight

  Riggs might’ve been a pain in the ass, but he could shoot and once the club got wind at how fucking awesome, he was, the vote to have him prospect became unanimous. I still think they would’ve let him in on the strength of being a tech genius. Jack might not be a fan of technology but with the club on high alert and making moves with the mob, he acquired Riggs to install surveillance cameras everywhere and anywhere. I’m pretty sure the guy knows if I’m jerking my dick and when I take a shit but whatever.

  Laying in my bed at the clubhouse, I toss a football in the air and catch it when a knock sounds on my door. Before I can tell whoever is on the other end to come in, the door flies open and Riggs walks in. Calling him by his road name has been a struggle and I sometimes slip up, but we made a pact to consciously try to leave our past in the dust. Riggs, more than anything, wants to forget he was once the heir to an empire and I want to forget the girl that still haunts my dreams.

  After Wolf and I drove up to Connecticut, Riggs, and I never spoke about Joss. He was going through his own shit back home and then we were both too occupied with my mother’s illness to think of anything else. When he started hanging around the club and our lives were somewhat normal, I refused to bring her name up. I didn’t want to hear about her boyfriend and I knew if she was in any kind of trouble, Riggs wouldn’t keep that shit to himself.

  Out of sight, out of mind.

  If only that was true.

  I still think about her.

  I still wonder if she’s living the good life and if her dreams are coming true.

  I also hope she ditched that fucking idiot boyfriend and found someone worthy of her. After all, I didn’t forfeit my own wants just for her to wind up with another loser.

  “Why aren’t you dressed?” Riggs questions, drawing my attention back to the present.

  “I am dressed,” I argue, glancing down at my clothes.

  Jeans, check.

  Black tee, check.

  Moto boots, check.

  What the fuck else was there?

  “There’s a dress code,” he says, smoothing his hand down his fitted dress shirt that he’s paired with a pair of gray slacks.

  “You look like you’re going to a funeral,” I mutter as he drops the shades onto the bridge of his nose.

  “Quite the opposite, Bonesy. The hotshot mobster is opening a nightclub tonight and guess who got himself on the guest list.”

  Sitting up, I toss the football across the room and fold my arms against my chest.

  “You’re going to the opening of Victor’s nightclub?”

  “Fuck yes,” he says, popping his collar like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. “I hear he’s got two hot as fuck daughters too.”

  “You might want to keep your dick in your pants, bud,” I warn. “The last thing you want is to wake up with a horse’s head in your bed.”

  Jack has always had

  an alliance with the reputed mob boss, Victor Pastore, but as of more recently, they’ve been working together on the daily. It’s something that has the club somewhat divided. Blackie doesn’t want to associate with the mob and neither do Wolf or Pipe. Me, I can give a fuck less. If Jack thinks partnering with Pastore will benefit the club, then I respect my leader’s decision. It’s the reason I offered myself up tonight.

  With Pastore in the middle of some mob war, he reached out to the club for protection. Jack agreed to help the gangster out and recruited, Riggs, claiming I needed time to unwind from last nights run. I didn’t like that he was choosing Riggs over me, but I wasn’t going to throw a tantrum.

  Apparently, the wannabe guido didn’t get the memo that he was on duty because he was dressed like he was going to tear down the dance floor.

  “Nonsense,” he admonishes. “I’m not scared of Tony Soprano,” he says, fixing the buttons on his sleeves. “How do I Look? Should I have invested in a gold chain? I hear these Brooklyn girls go gaga for guys with thick gold chains and ten pounds of hair gel.”

  “Is that why your hair looks like you stuck your finger in a socket?” I question, staring at the spikey do he’s sporting.

  Before he can answer me, Jack walks into my room, tying a red bandanna around his head. Stopping dead in his tracks, he rakes his eyes over Riggs.

  “Jesus fuck, what are you wearing?”

  “What? I should’ve gone for the chain, right?” he questions, turning to me. “I told you.”

  “Take that shit off and put your leathers on,” Jack growls. “You’re not going disco dancing.”

  “No, I’m going fist pumping,” Riggs corrects, pounding his fist in the air.

  “I’ll show you fist pumping when I knock your teeth down your throat. Go put your fucking colors on and for Christ’s sake, put a hat on or something. You look like a porcupine.”

  “Wait, you said we were going to the grand opening of Temptations.”

  “I said we were working the opening of Temptations, which means you and I are sitting out asses on the corner in case fucking hell breaks loose.”

  “So, no dancing?

  “No fucking dancing, Riggs,” Jack growls.

  “I told you I would’ve gone with you,” I say.

  “And, after last night, I want you lying low,” he retorts.

  Things went south last night when the buyer for our guns thought the terms of our agreement were negotiable. Not only did the deal not go through but I had a couple of holes to dig. Hence, the night off.

  “Unfortunately, you’re going to have to do that after you pick up Wolf. The son of a bitch broke down in Manha
ttan,” he continues. “He’s at Smith and Wolensky’s. You’re going to need to take a cage unless you want him on your back.”

  “Now, that’s a sight,” Riggs asserts.

  “Almost as much of a sight as you are dressed in that costume,” I mutter, throwing my legs over the edge of the bed. Meeting Jack’s gaze, I tip my chin. “I’m on it.”

  Leaving John Travolta and the Bulldog to sort shit out, I grab the keys to one of the vans and make my way into the lot. By the time I get to the steakhouse, it’s close to ten o’clock and Wolf is nowhere in sight. Standing outside the overpriced restaurant, I reach for my phone and call the crazy bastard.

  “Hello?”

  “Wolf, where are you?”

  “At Juniors having a slice of cheesecake and an espresso. What’s it to you?”

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Jack said you broke down at Smith & Wolensky’s. I fucking paid forty-five bucks to park the cage and you’re not even here.”

  “Quit you bitchin’ and go in and have yourself a steak dinner. The T-Bone is excellent.”

  All this guy talks about is food. I swear he’s got a tapeworm or something.

  “So, you didn’t break down?”

  “Oh, I broke down, but I had my shit towed. Motherfucker we own a garage. Now, get yourself a slab of beef and while you’re at it, it wouldn’t kill you to get laid too. You’d be a better man if ya let that poison out of you,” he says before disconnecting the call.

  “Well, fuck,” I hiss, pocketing the phone. Staring up at the restaurant, I shake my head. Fuck that, I’m not pissing a hundred dollars on a dinner I don’t even want.

  “Eric?”

  At the sound of my name, I turn my head and my eyes collide with Joss.

  In the middle of the biggest city in the world, surrounded by a ton of people, everything stops.

  Time stands still, and I just stare at her like she’s a figment of my imagination.

  “Jocelyn.”

  One more detour.

  Nine

  For someone who didn’t want to drop cash on an expensive dinner for one, I suddenly had no problem springing for dinner for two. Especially after I found out she was only in New York for twenty-four hours.