by R. R. Banks
I take a pull of my cigar and blow the smoke toward the ceiling. Rupert looks at me and I notice he still hasn't lit his own cigar. I give him a smile.
“See? We're all good now,” I say.
He grins and shakes his head. “You can take the kid out of the Kitchen –”
“But you can never take the Kitchen out of the kid.”
“Exactly,” he says. “It's a double-edged sword.”
“It's what keeps life interesting, my friend.”
He nods. “Yeah. That it does,” he replies. “That it certainly does.”
* * *
I step into the apartment and close the door behind me. Walking down the short hall that leads to the living room, I hear the TV playing, the voice of the announces echoing down the hallway to me. Because, of course it is. It's hockey season, after all. But then, it's always some season. The world of sports never stops turning.
I know there's no game tonight, so he must be watching a game recorded on his DVR. He already knows the scores and all – he reads the sports page religiously every morning. Which is why I find it so mind-boggling that he'll sit and watch a game he already knows the result of. He knows who won, who lost, who scored, and who didn't. And yet, he'll still watch the entire game.
The man can never get enough of his sports. I like sports well enough, but for very different reasons. Even though I'm no longer running the book in the back of Pops' bar, I still look at games, and break down the matchups, analyze the data, and pick my winners. Once
, I'll lay a little money down, just for fun. But, my enjoyment of sports is pretty much exclusive to business now.
When it comes to sports though, Pops is practically addicted to them. For him, it's a passion, and its visceral. He loves the Mets, Rangers, and Knicks with a passion that borders on the unhealthy. But, it's harmless, and it's something he enjoys, so fuck it. Let him enjoy the things he loves and bring him some happiness. He deserves it.
“Pops,” I say. “How they doin' today?”
“Fuckin’ Rangers,” he grumbles. “Down a pair of goals in the third period. It's gonna be another lost season.”
“It's still early yet. Season's not even halfway through,” I say. “I do remember telling you they were gonna have a rough year.”
He grumbles and shakes his head. “Yeah, I'm gonna have to listen to you one of these years.”
I drop down on the couch beside him and take in the last out of the recorded game. When the final horn sounds, he flips the TV off, and tosses the remote onto the couch cushion next to him.
“Seriously, why are you such a Rangers die hard?” I ask. “All they ever do is break your heart.”
He smirks. “I had an old lady once who said I was a glutton for punishment. A masochist or some crap like that,” he says. “She wasn't talkin' about the Rangers though.”
“Yeah, given your love for the Rangers, I guess I can see how that applies.”
He laughs. “Loyalty, my boy,” he quips. “It's all about loyalty. I grew up a Rangers fan and I'm gonna die a Rangers fan. It's just the circle of life.”
“How ya feelin' today, old man?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Ain't dead yet. That has to count for somethin'.”
“It counts for a lot.”
“You know you should just put me in a home,” he says. “You shouldn't be wastin' your money on me like this.”
“It’s my money to waste,” I say. “And if it was not for you, I wouldn't have the money to begin with.”
Shortly after Bishop Financial started turning a profit, and I started making some good money, Pops had a stroke. I guess the timing was the only fortunate thing about it, because I was able to pay for top-notch care. And, other than having a shitty memory, moments where he's not entirely lucid, and being confined to a wheelchair now, he still the same old Pops I've always known and loved.
After the stroke, I moved him out of that shitty apartment he'd long refused to leave and set him up in a nice luxury apartment in a seniors community. It's got a nice view, and a lot of good amenities he seems to enjoy. Of course, the best amenity for Pops is that the number of women to men in the community is two to one, which I know he enjoys. He's also got a live-in nurse to take care of him now.
He's a proud man, and doesn't like to take handouts – even though, he's given more than a few in his time. Including to me. He deserves it. I think he should be comfortable. He's getting older and needs a little extra help. Help I'm more than happy to give.
“Serious, kid,” he says. “You should be out livin' your life, not worryin’ about some old man.”
I laugh. “I'm livin' my life, Pops,” I say with a smile. “Don’t worry.”
“Don’t I know it?” he cajoles. “I saw you in that shitty magazine with that blonde. Wow. If only I were twenty years younger.”
“Forty, Pops,” I tease. “If you were forty years younger.”
“Screw you,” he snaps and laughs. “Fine, forty. Whatever.”
Pops taught me to
use my head – and to appreciate a woman who does too. Unfortunately, I haven't found her just yet. Living the life I do, a lot of the women who throw themselves in my path are just looking to snag a rich man. It's just the nature of the beast I want more than that.
Once upon a time, I thought I'd found that woman. A woman who changed how I perceived the world around me. Made me think and look at things differently. As cheesy as it is to say, she stimulated more than just my body – she inspired my brain as well. And to me, that was the one of the sexists thing about her.
She was someone I could imagine myself settling down with. But – well – shit happens, and life gets in the way.
“So, what brings you by today?” he asks. “Shouldn't you be out conquerin' the world or somethin'?”
I shrug. “Conquering the world takes time and patience,” I say. “You also gotta be able to unplug and have some fun once in a while.”
“That's true, kid,” he says. “So, why are you here messin' with me when you should be with some underwear model. That's what I'd consider fun.”
I laugh. “Man cannot live on models alone, old man.”
“Says you.”
“He wouldn't know what to do with a gorgeous young model if she sat on his lap anymore,” Adriana says. “He might keel over and die of happiness right there.”
Pops grouses. “At least I'd die happy.”
I grin as Adriana, Pops' live-in nurse, walks into the room. She's tall, fit, has long, black hair and dark hazel eyes. Adriana has a mouth like a sailor, takes absolutely zero shit from anybody, and isn't afraid to dole it out to Pops – obviously.
Adriana is sarcastic and cutting, but beyond tender and caring with the old man. She gives him the best care around, and as cantankerous as he can be sometimes, I know she cares for him deeply. And although he won't admit it, I know he loves her too. It's for all those reasons and more, that I adore the woman.
I wave around the apartment, frowning at all the Christmas decorations strung up around the place. There's a tall tree in the corner, festooned with ribbons, lights, and garish ornaments. Garland hangs around the windows, and other assorted decorations are everywhere.
“Is this your doing, Adriana?” I ask.
“What?” she shoots back. “It's the holidays. The place should be festive. Joyous. Happy.”
“It looks like one of Santa's elves got a hold of this place,” Pops growls, then looked over at me. “I didn't have anything to do with this, kid. I woke up and it looked like this.”
Pops doesn't have the same loathing of Christmas that I do, but he's a little crankier than normal around the holidays. And, he's never been one who's big on outlandish, garish displays, or things that are overly commercialized – like Christmas.
“I had some time to kill,” Adriana says. “And I thought this place needed a little holiday cheer. It was depressing as hell in here.”
“I need some holiday booze to deal with your holida
y cheer,” Pops says.
“You wish, old man,” she replies. “You know your doctor told you no more booze on your meds.”
“I have to agree with her on that Pops,” I say. “You can't drink anymore. Not with all the pills you're taking.”
“Some holiday cheer and spirit,” he grumbles. “A couple of regular Grinches right fuckin’ here.”
Adriana and I share an eye roll and a laugh.
“Time for therapy, old man,” Adriana says.
Pops groans and rolls his eyes. I laugh as I get to my feet and turn around to face him.
“C'mon, Pops,” I say. “Your chariot awaits.”
“Chariot,” he huffs. “I feel like a damn infant, havin' you all pushin' me around in that thing.”
Adriana shrugs. “Well, to be fair, sometimes you act like an infant.”
Pops looks at her, giving her a small little grin. “You know, if you didn't have such an outstanding ass, I woulda kicked you outta here months ago.”
I'm laughing as I lift Pops up and set him down in his seat, with him grumbling the entire time. When I have him situated, I straighten up and snap my fingers.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” I say as I reach into the interior pocket of my coat. “I have something for you.” I hand the envelope I'm holding to Pops and watch him open it. The smile on his face is priceless and something I never get tired of seeing.
“This is terrific,” he says. “Damn, kid. You're too good to me.”
“A box suite to the Rangers game next week,” I say. “Adriana, you in?”
“Hell yeah, I'm in,” she says.
She and Pop are smiling and give each other a high five. They share a love of the Rangers, and often watch the games together. It's one of the first things that bonded them together and has allowed them to develop such a strong relationship.
“Great,” I say. “I'll call you and get it set up and have a car come by for the two of you.”
Pops has an ecstatic smile on his face as Adriana wheels him away for his therapy session, and I'm glad to see it.
I leave his place and take the elevator back down to the ground floor. I tip the doorman and pull my coat a little tighter around me. The afternoon is brisk, and as December rolls on, it's only going to get colder.
Down on the corner, I see a man in a Santa suit with the red bucket, ringing his bell, and all around me, the city is teeming with holiday spirit. There are a couple of city crews attaching silver and gold bells to a streetlight, and another crew hanging some oversized mistletoe on another.
“Christ, I can't escape this shit,” I mutter to myself.
Pushing away my annoyance at the over-the-top holiday displays,
I turn and
walk briskly to the car. My driver has the door open and waiting.
“Sorry, Roger,” I say. “Got distracted by all this damn holiday cheer.”
“Very good, sir,” he replies.
He gets behind the wheel and pilots us out into traffic, bound for home.
6
Darby
We're sitting in Chantel's, one of the finest restaurants on the Upper East Side. Mason doesn’t like to leave the area if he can help it. It's like he fears that if he travels outside of his sphere of influence, the clock will strike twelve, and he'll turn back into a middle-class pumpkin or something.
This isn’t my favorite restaurant. A little too snooty and upscale for my liking. There's a string quartet playing Christmas music in a roped-off area to the side of the dining room, and the restaurant is decked out for the holidays – most everything done up in silver and gold, as if it denotes a classy Christmas or something. There's a twenty-foot tree in one corner with white candles and ribbon as its main decorations, and other similar, tasteful decorations filling the place.
“So, how are things at work?” I ask.
Mason takes a sip of his drink, sets the glass back down on the table and nods, a wide, satisfied, totally self-congratulatory smirk on his face.
“Excellent,” he says. “I just closed a big case.”
“Oh yeah? Congratulations.”
“It was a long, complicated process, but we finally got everything we needed to prove this shady hedge fund manager was receiving inside information,” he says. “This arrogant prick thought he was going to get away with nothing but paying a fine. We nailed his ass to the wall instead. Surprised the shit out of him.”
I take a long sip of my wine and nod. Honestly, Mason's job bores me to tears. Truthfully, it's his evangelical zeal when recounting his victories that puts me off. And, it's mostly because he's so self-righteous about it. It's like, he's made it his own personal crusade to take down the wealthy and the elite – as if he isn’t from the same world.
No, for whatever reason, somewhere along the line, he decided that hunting people who gamed the system for personal gain was his mission in life. Which, in and of itself, isn't a bad thing. If you're a crook, you deserve to be punished to the fullest extent of the law. I have absolutely no issue with that.
Mason takes it far beyond that. It's not enough for him to punish them. He has to humiliate them on top of it. Rub their noses in it and prove his superiority. He's a zealot, plain and simple, and he's a little hard to deal with because of it. That righteous arrogance he wears like a Superman cape, convinced he's doing something noble and good because he believes in the laws of this land, disgusts me to no end – mostly because I know it's not real. It's all part of his persona.
Personally, I think he enjoys prosecuting the wealthy elite out of some sense of self-loathing, because deep down, he knows he's not like them. That he's a fraud.
Honestly, that's probably why his marriage didn't last. I can't blame his wife for running. And if I'm being totally honest, I'm surprised she agreed to marry him in the first place. He was arrogant and condescending when we were younger, but he's only gotten worse as the years have gone by.
“I'm guessing he got more than a slap on the wrist,” I say, feigning interest.
He holds up his glass of bourbon and stares at it lovingly. “Gave him the financial equivalent of the death penalty,” he says, a reverent tone in his voice. “Seized all of his assets, hidden offshore accounts, homes, everything. And, we stripped him of all licenses, so he'll never be able to play the market again.”
“Wow,” I say. “That sounds harsh.”
He shrugs. “He broke the law,” he says. “I threw him a bone though, just to prove I'm not a totally heartless asshole. I let him off without any prison time.”
Wow. What a gesture of kindness and compassion. The man has no home, no money, no source of income, or ability to make an income, and nothing left, but at least he's not going to prison. I would almost guarantee the man is going to take his own life. I mean, what does he have left? I take another drink of my wine to avoid something snarky and sarcastic from flying out of my mouth. Mason doesn't appreciate my wit or sense of humor as much as I do.
“You should have seen his face when I dropped that on him though,” he says, smiling wide. “It was priceless. I thought he was going to have a heart attack right there. He never saw it coming. Christ, I love doing that to these scum. Makes my day every single time.”
“That's great,” I say. “I'm proud of you, Mason.”
“Thank you,” he says, the edge of arrogance thick in his voice. “No victory is as sweet as the complete annihilation of your opponent.”
He sits back in his chair and preens like a peacock. Part of me wants to smack him for being such a pretentious ass, but I don't want to make a spectacle of myself in a nice restaurant. Especially since I do come here from time to time. His smug attitude isn't worth me getting blackballed from this place. Even if it's not my favorite place ever. I still have certain social graces I have to follow.
Since our aunt and uncle passed, we're the only family we have left, so we make a point to get together for dinner every few weeks. Our relationship, however, is strained. To say the least. It has been si
nce we were kids – but it hasn't gotten any better as adults. We go through the motions, though, and spend holidays together, celebrate birthdays together now and then – all in an effort to seem like a normal family.
Because that's what's expected of us. Or rather, was. Our aunt and uncle always stressed the importance of family. They told us if they hadn't been such firm believers in family, they probably would have left us at St. Agatha’s.
Yeah, nothing like a little guilt to inspire gratitude and obedience.
That was something they were both exceedingly good at.
But, with each passing year, it becomes clearer and more obvious that Mason and I are two different people. We see the world in completely different ways and have polar-opposite values and priorities. His’s climbing the ladder and building a legacy, while I teach art at a public school, and try to inspire everyone I meet.
Mason always thought of people as pawns in his game, and completely disregards all lives but his own. On the flip side, I believe that all people are worthy of love, respect, and understanding. I think helping lift people up is the noble endeavor, not tearing them down, like Mason so clearly enjoys doing.
The one thing that's abundantly obvious is that our shared last name is the only thing that really bonds us together. The only thing we have in common.
“I have to tell you, a few more wins like this will really put my name on the map,” he says.
“You're a U.S. Attorney,” I remark. “I'd say your name is already on the map.”
He shrugs. “It has to be in the right circles,” he response. “The right people need to know my name if I'm going to get to where I want to go.”
“And where is that?”
“I’m going to be Attorney General one day,” he states smugly. “And who knows, maybe after that, I'll run for the presidency.”
If anybody else had said that, I would have laughed, assuming it was a joke. But, not my brother. His ambition outstrips everything – including his compassion and humanity. All that matters to him is gaining status and prestige. Rank and position are the most important things to him. Earning the respect of others – or if not their respect, their fear. He's not picky which, so long as they grovel at his feet.