My burner phone beeps. They didn’t catch that. One of the agents digs into my jacket pocket and pulls it out. Reads the text and shakes his head. “Cute.”
He shows me the screen. It reads: Had to be done. Now we’re finished. Will take your advice. Maybe Germany? —B.
“Looks like we got your girlfriend.” The agent smiles.
The other agent pulls a radio to his lips. Rambles about blocking flights to Europe at JFK and LaGuardia. Stupid call. Ayah seems smarter than that. She’s depending on this action. She’s headed north or south, not overseas. I’m glad she got away. I wonder about Ian and Danny. Hope they made it out too. Also hope they don’t take my arrest too hard. I won’t give them up—there’s no need to.
We get to the lobby and I’m escorted out of the building. There’s a commotion as soon as we hit fresh air. They toss me in the back of an unmarked vehicle. I can see the crowd gathered outside the building through tinted windows. Near the front, I spot a guy in a hoodie and slacks. He leans forward and faces me. It’s Ian acting all cloak and dagger. I figure Danny’s long gone by now—smart enough to get a move on when everything goes down. Ian doesn’t react when he sees me, only watches a minute and then turns to disappear into the crowd. Keep my head low and smile. Even if Ayah or Danny can’t get to Ireland—even if they can’t put a bullet between Sean’s eyes—I’m still here. I’m in custody. I’m a known accomplice of his. I’ve been involved in more than a decade of murder, terrorism, and racketeering.
I just became Paulie’s replacement.
Uncle Sean’s about to get everything he was ever afraid of.
Celtic Symphony—One Year Later
29
They moved me twelve times in as many months. The accommodations are far from fancy. It’s nothing but single-bedroom apartments throughout the Tristate area. I can’t complain. Free food, drink—occasionally internet. I’ve taught every fed babysitter that’s been assigned my case how to play Go Fish. It’s the only game I know all the rules to. Had one guy try to teach me poker, but I didn’t like him much, so all I did was play stupid to bust his balls. Son of a bitch near strangled me to the death after the explaining the “river” to me for the twentieth time.
I haven’t heard a damn thing about Danny, Ayah, or Ian. I figure no news is good news. Besides, if they had anyone else with info on Sean’s activities and past transgressions, they’d dangle that shit over me in a heartbeat. No, that crew is smart—smarter than I am. I’d put money on Danny being well out of the country. The way Ian was attached to his ass, solid bet he is too. Ayah, maybe she’s the third wheel. Doubt it. She’s probably running around Japan buying up whatever weird octopus comics they have out there.
What does worry me is the lack of any news regarding my mother. It doesn’t feel right that they’d be silent about her. If they had access to her, she’d be in custody. Shit—she’d sell every one of us out in a heartbeat if they gave her an out. The other possibility—she’s dead. I entertained that theory for a few weeks, but that would still be information I can’t see being worth withholding from me. No. She’s run off. Went back to Ireland or parts unknown. I know her well enough to know she can see the writing on the wall better than anyone I’ve ever known. That lady is a survivor through and through.
I hope.
I wake up at 5:45 a.m. Drop to the ground and work through a hundred push-ups, sit-ups, and squats. All the free time has let me take care of myself. I look almost as good as I did in my twenties. Feel better than I did as a teenager. One of my handlers, Special Agent Linda Chen, walks in to make sure I’m not up to shenanigans. She’s a hard-ass, but agreeable so long as I am. They made a point to keep me away from any former military—surprisingly, not many veterans were fond of me. Chen’s only military background is some ex-boyfriend she won’t name that seemingly drives her crazy.
“You almost done?” Chen has her hands on her hips. Head cocked to the side. She watches me like a caged animal—no sign of emotion or intent. There’s no complexity to our relationship. Feels nice.
I finish my last squat. “Yeah.” Take off my shirt. “Is it cool for me to take a shower?”
She checks her watch. “Simmons?”
“Yeah?” Denise Simmons, the other handler, walks into the room. Similar story to Chen, except she’s all American. Heard she was a badass out in Quantico from other guards long gone. They mentioned her anger problems. Can’t say I’ve noticed that. She handles herself like someone who’s seen some shit before.
“He has time to clean up?” Chen jerks a thumb at me.
“Sure.” Simmons checks her watch. “Five minutes, Walshie.”
I nod to them. “Thanks.”
They leave me be and I rush through the motions. Get myself cleaned. Every time they think they’ve got me somewhere “secure,” they get word that Sean’s got another plot to take care of me. There have been snipers, bomb threats, double-crosses. At least three agents were found to be working in collusion with the bastard. Informant status saved my ass from military death row, but now I’m beholden to a paranoid federal agency with an infinite supply of cheap, rundown apartments. I see none of the threats, though, only get fed the info third-hand. Can’t say I’m not a little suspicious that all the moves are more to mess with me than keep me safe. Pretty sure Interpol knocking at their doors for my sorry ass all the time ain’t helping much either.
I’m a very wanted man, even in custody.
I get my boots on and sit at the foot of the bed. Listen to the quiet; inspect the corners for something—anything. The ghosts haven’t returned since I was brought in. No taunts, no jump scares—nothing. The weight of my actions is still here; I know what I’ve done and why I did it. Only difference is I truly accepted what I was—shit—what I am. Maybe that’s all they needed me to do. Still, I can’t help but wait for them. I almost feel abandoned, as screwed up as that sounds. There was a time I couldn’t wait for them to fade away. I can’t gauge if their absence means I’m in the best of mental health, and honestly, it’s not worth stressing over. There’s no point in trying to rationalize every bad decision I’ve made.
I double-check my shoe lacing, slip a shirt on, and head into the other room.
Simmons and Chen are playing Go Fish. There’s a pile of board games situated in front of my seat. A not-too-subtle hint that they’d appreciate a change in the game we play. No thanks, Parcheesi is boring and the less said about Monopoly the better.
“You try telling her it’s a conscious choice?” Chen eyes her cards. Bites her lower lip while she mulls over giving up her hand.
Simmons sighs. “My mom’s an idiot. Never listens. All she cares about is living vicariously through whatever life plan she made for me a million years ago.” She eyes her cards. “Now she’s up my ass about Easter too. Says my dad really wants to see me. He can get on the phone if he wants me around so bad.”
I sit between them. Draw some cards. “Could be worse,” I add.
“How so?” Simmons drops a two of hearts on the trash pile. Scoops up two more cards and sighs in frustration when she sees the state of her hand.
“My ma wanted me to make her life happen and my dad was a bit of a non-presence after a point.” I go through my cards. “I thought we had to move safe houses.” I frown at the shit pull I took for this round. “Anybody got a three?”
“Last-minute delay. We got another hour. Go fish.” Chen lays her cards face down. “Anyone want something to drink?”
“Whiskey?” I ask hopefully.
No response.
I shake my head. “Fine, no breakfast of champions. We got anything else coming? I’m starving.” I dig through the card bank. Takes me six tries before I get a hand that satisfies me.
There’s a knock on the door. “Shit, Walshie, you’re a psychic.” Simmons stands and goes to the door. A kid’s standing there with a white plastic bag and a new suit. Looks like he’s ready to piss himself. The suit’s a little shor
t at the sleeves and I’m suspicious that the pants haven’t been hemmed. The way they puff out at the bottom looks like he rolled the extra fabric in and under. Can’t understand what kind of poor son of a bitch doesn’t know to hem their pants anymore.
Simmons takes the bag and closes the door before he has a chance to stammer out a sentence. “Fucking rookies.” She smiles and places the bag on the table.
I chuckle. “You made him sleep in the car again?”
“Of course. He’s gotta take his bumps. We all took our bumps.” She digs through the bag. Pulls out a few containers with eggs, sausage, and bacon. She yanks out a paper bag taped shut. My name’s written on it in Sharpie. “Hey, you got your delivery for once.” She lays the bag in front of me.
“Awesome.” I rip the tape off. Excited to get my weekly comic book fix for the first time in months. It was one of the only conditions I gave them aside from keeping me alive. Since I didn’t make a fuss, they provided it at their leisure, but beggars can’t be choosers. There’s an issue of Spider-Man on top, but it’s not in English. “Weird.” I examine the book, open to the inside cover and see it’s a Turkish reprint.
“What’s up?” Chen asks. Her eyes are still on her cards.
“Nothing, wrong book is all. Not a huge deal.” I check another comic. It’s Greek. The next: Italian. Six more books until I get to something reprinted in the UK. The last comic, an issue of Aquaman—in English—printed in the States. I look through the global tour of comics sent my way. Notice there’s something left in the bag. Reach in and pull out a pack of Cedars. I bring it up to my nose and take a long sniff. It brings me back to a weird happy place. I almost get giddy.
I’m glad to see they’re all doing okay.
I decide to save the comics for the car ride, so I slip them back into the paper bag. The Cedars go in my front shirt pocket. I haven’t smoked since they took me on my year-long road trip. Don’t plan on doing it anytime soon either, but I’d rather not throw them out. Last time anyone even smoked near me, I almost vomited. The only thing I miss is having something in my hand. That’s forced me to pick up a nasty knuckle-cracking habit. Thinking about a smoke gets me going and I run through my ritual—first the knuckles on the left hand, then the knuckles on the right. Repeat three times.
“You smoke?” Chen eyes me. Taps my arm with the back of her hand. “Stop cracking your knuckles. Drives me insane.”
I lay my hands on the table, face down. Fight the urge to bring them back up. “Used to. I asked for an emergency pack last time we got word out.” I dig back into my eggs. “I’ve been having a tough time sleeping.” The eggs are short of passable. Surprises me how terrible the diner food is everywhere outside of the boroughs. A year out, and I’d do anything for a whiff of food from Arthur Avenue or Chinatown.
Chen nods. She’s an expert at seeing through my bullshit. That she doesn’t follow up is more a favor than ignorance. Not that I think she’s particularly fond of me. I have a feeling she pities my sorry ass but wouldn’t bat an eye if she needed to do me harm—for good reason. Days gone by, that would have invoked some sort of bullshit resentment, but these days I take whatever kindnesses offered my way.
“There’s extra bacon,” Simmons says. She pushes the container to me. “Double win for you today.”
I open the lid of the container with the bacon. It’s overflowing. That is a small win. “What was the first?”
Simmons flips me the bird.
I nibble on a strip of bacon. It’s the only good part of the meal. A hand slaps down on my shoulder. I turn to see Liam. He’s got that shit-eating grin on his face like always. Even in a well-lit room, he makes it seem twice as bright. He’s in his dress uniform—every bit the strapping son of a bitch I remember. I was always so proud of him and the man he became. Wish I could have told him that face to face, but I know one day I’ll get that chance. For now, I’m content with remembering him the way I always wanted.
“Hey.” Liam smiles at me. “Remember the time Grandpa had to kill that pig?” he asks. Takes the free seat in front of me and leans back.
This is my best memory of him, the one ghost I can make do with. I know it’s in my head—and probably not the best for my mental state—but he brings me peace. He reminds me that there was a time when I wasn’t a son of a bitch. I was some dumb Irish kid from the Bronx.
I finish the strip of bacon. Pick up another and point to Agent Chen with it while I shovel the bland eggs into my mouth. “I ever tell you about the time my grandfather had to kill a pig?”
Chen shakes her head.
Simmons rolls her eyes. “Jesus, this again.”
I wave a new strip of bacon at Simmons. “Don’t ruin the story with your sourpuss attitude. It’s a good one.”
“Is it gross?” Chen looks at Simmons.
Simmons slides her chair back and crosses her arms. “Whatever, we got time to kill. Tell the stupid pig story. I could use a nap.”
“Your vote of confidence is appreciated, Special Agent Simmons.” I turn back to Chen. Bite into another strip of bacon and grin like a madman. “My grandfather’s name was Mairsial Walsh…”
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The list of writers I have here would be ludicrous and out of fear of leaving many out, I’ll simply say thank you to any and all of the writers I’ve read and interacted with. Inspiration has come from everywhere and I am eternally grateful.
That said I think there are a few folks I need to call out by name.
Rob Hart—this is all your fault. All of it. I think you probably hate hearing that but thank you.
Sara J. Henry—thank you for your edits and for whipping my ass into fighting shape. I’m so proud of this book and it is in no small part because of you.
Chris Holm—thank you for not only giving me some assistance with a query for this one but for putting Sara on my radar. It’s outstanding to be a part of a community like this.
Peter Steinberg—thank you for your eye and guidance.
Todd Robinson—thank you for teaching me to be confident of my own voice.
Jeanette—thank you for everything. I love you.
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ANGEL LUIS COLÓN is the Anthony and Derringer Award-nominated author of Pull & Pray, No Happy Endings, the Blacky Jaguar series of novellas, and the short story anthology Meat City on Fire (and Other Assorted Debacles). His fiction has appeared in multiple web and print publications including Thuglit, Literary Orphans, and Great Jones Street. He also hosts the podcast, the bastard title.
AngelLuisColon.com
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BOOKS BY ANGEL LUIS COLÓN
The Fantine Park Series
No Happy Endings
Pull & Pray
Songs of Piss and Vinegar
The Fury of Blacky Jaguar
Blacky Jaguar Against the Cool Clux Cult
Stand-Alone
Hell Chose Me
Short Stories
Meat City on Fire and Other Stories
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Here is a preview from The One That Got Away, a psychological thriller by Joe Clifford…
Click here for a complete catalog of titles available from Down & Out Books and its divisions and imprints.
THEN
She lost track of time, how long she’d been locked underground. Must’ve been several days by now. The pungent stench of urine filled the black, empty spaces like the alleyway behind the bus station. Her stomach gnawed, hunger panged, sliced at her guts, like a feral animal trapped inside her rib cage, mouth too dry to produce the spit to swallow. When she first woke, submerged in total darkness, she clawed at the concrete, beat her fists against the wall of whatever this prison was. She screamed until she couldn’t hear her own voice anymore.
Then she slumped to the floor and waited.
She was going to die here.
But not before something very bad happened to her
first.
NOW
CHAPTER ONE
On the overpass leading into Reine, the small Upstate New York town where Alex Salerno had grown up, some smart ass had spray painted “Abandon all hope ye who enter here.” There was only the one road in off the 87, making the concrete billboard the perfect platform for free advertising. Mostly pissed-off punks who had been scaling the trestles since Alex was a little girl. Drunk on blackberry brandy, draped in black, tempting fate on midnight tracks where freight trains rumbled alongside the Hudson River all night long. Anything to mark territory, stake a claim. Make voices of discontent heard. Every spring the town sent in a cleaning crew. The following fall, another tag. As Alex drove closer to the bridge, she made out the hastily scrawled response: “You need hope to lose it, asshole.” Point. Counterpoint. Alex imagined respectable suburban professionals, mothers with small children, housewives driving this same route every day, seeing the graffiti and wondering what was wrong with kids today because they had never been young and didn’t remember what outrage felt like.
It took her a while to find the campus. Even when she lived up here, Alex hadn’t spent much time at Uniondale University, the private college on the hill with its fake ponds and planted sod. Sitting on a bench burnished with names she’d never heard of, Alex took in the sprawling campus, the packs of giggling girls and cocksure boys. Alex had nothing against learning or higher education. She read books. In another life, she might’ve done well in college. But with each passing minute she felt increasingly uncomfortable among the rich kids shuttled in from Connecticut and the Hamptons.
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