Peace Tomorrow: A Verón City Novel

by M. Roberts

I’m lost, where was I going? Into the past is pointless, it’s all over with. You only ever get lost in it. Just like the human heart, foolish and weak. I look to the future, to my game, to my moves. Though it’s not about the ends, it’s about being in the game. So, while I know big things are in store, I’ll appreciate them when they come. I’m too young not to appreciate the moment. The move. And I can play anyone.

  6.

  Night was setting in, the sunset casting its deep red shade in the pool of the fountain in the Dicaro’s courtyard, while Titus snuck into Ezekiel’s private office. Though his body shook, his muscles anticipating several moves ahead, he reined it in. He held his focus on each progressive moment, pushing thoughts of the second, third, fourth steps to the back of his mind, assuring the voices that he would indeed get to them. But to leave him be. Let him work methodically. His uncle’s office was immaculate and sterile. Dim lighting from a mission style floor lamp infused a gold color in the surface of the dark wood of his desk. It was his desk, the lamp, a chair, and a window. The room served a single purpose, to provide a refuge for Ezekiel. This is where he came to orchestrate his empire. In the desk were built in cabinets with locks. Titus swiped a paper clip from the desk and quickly unfurled it. Then he went to work on the top drawer. He wriggled the metal through the hole, shimmying at just the right intervals. This was a skill he had learned on his own, one of few, and he was proud of it. Excellent, Titus. Keep going. Click, click, yes, click, you’re getting it. Get in. It’s in there. Retrieve it. In a moment, the cabinet was open, and the stillness that Titus kept in his fingers scattered again, as he shook while reaching in to pull out a revolver. Ah, there it is. You have it now. Now keep going. Go, Titus, what are you waiting for? Take it, take what’s yours! Take it all. Don’t stop. You have to get it. You have to bring it back. You have to write the note. You have to frighten the king. You have to break him of his confidence. You have to---“Enough!” he shouted to the otherwise empty room. They did not relent, even as he smashed the revolver’s butt against his skull. “Alright,” he said. Then with greater determination, “Alright.” Titus slammed shut the drawer, took off from the house, running out from the office, through the front door, down the driveway, and off again towards the city, with a horde of voices at his back, urging him on, insistently crying for the next step.

  It was night, and it was getting colder. Titus began to shiver, but he couldn’t determine whether it was the temperature, or still the anxiety. The swell of confidence he had building was clouding around him, he began to feel he could get away with anything, but some trace anxious feeling kept imbedded in the back of his mind. It spoke. Don’t, Titus. You don’t have to. This is wrong, this can only ever end in tragedy. You can’t get away with this, you know it. You know better, Titus, this is foolish. You are being a fool. Don’t be a fool. But he pushed it, allowed the other to swallow. Do it, Titus. There is nothing left of the notion you can earn. You must steal. You must take, Titus. Go, Titus. Take. And so they carried out the debate, the many calling for action, and the few requesting reconsideration, as Titus stalked Rose. He watched her from a distance, entering the party, finding all his cousins too preoccupied to notice him. Lane was crowded by women impressed with his masculinity, Joan reeling in what seemed the most interesting game. He felt himself invisible. Powerful. But still he kept quiet, kept his head down, kept out of sight. He watched Rose as she exited out the back door, alone. She at first seemed solemn, perhaps lonely, but then when he rounded the corner of the house to peek at her from the bushes, it was clear she was fascinated with something. He couldn’t quite tell. She stared into the sky, but he was sure that wasn’t it. Some thought, some secret unknown to him brought her a sense of happiness. It gave her a glow in his eyes, and he felt drawn in. He was about to make his move when Lucius entered the scene, standing next to her and staring up. Fear swelled and Titus retracted himself back into the bush.

  He remained there for the duration of their time in the backyard, watching them kiss passionately, feeling heat burn in his gut, a hatred. How could she? What is she doing? She can’t love him. She loves me. She doesn’t share that love. That love is mine. Those lips should be mine. Rose, oh Rose, what are you doing?! And yet still remaining in the shadows as he tailed them all the way to the beach, where he crouched behind a trash barrel. Kill them both, Titus. Do it. Now. Run to them. Shoot them both in the head and drape their naked bodies out for the gulls. No. Shut up. She still loves me. She doesn’t love you, she wouldn’t do this if she did. Titus, don’t listen to them. Let her go. No! She’s mine. She’ll always be mine. This internal strike drowned the words of the new lovers as they touched one another affectionately and then made love. Titus tried tearing his eyes from the scene, but found that he could not, and was forced into stomaching the image by his now overwhelming obsession. He unleashed it now, allowing his mind to be consumed by it, by the aggression, by Rose.

  He remained quiet, still, as the sun began to rise and the lovers stood and covered themselves, giggling as they searched the sands for the various articles of clothing they had stripped in the night. They kissed again, holding each other and lingering on the lips before Rose headed off back towards home. Thoughts of murdering Lucius were lulled by the greater desire. Rose. He followed her at a distance, tracking her through the city back towards the house. He watched from down the block as she entered. With stealth, Titus snuck around to her window and watched her lay her head down and drift to sleep. The image paused Titus, his voices, and for what he could tell, his heart. Her head laid to rest, her peaceful expression, and the way her hair draped itself over her pillows all coalesced into something angelic in Titus’s eye. He watched her this way, time standing still, and everything quiet, for some twenty odd minutes before a twitch in her expression broke the trance and the mission crowded back in.

  He shimmied slowly and quietly the window up in its tracks until there was just enough for his thin frame to slip through. His long body seemed to do so with ease, as not a sound was made to stir Rose.

  She was sound asleep.

  Titus hovered over her.

  His hand eclipsed her mouth.

  Then dropped.

  He grabbed the bottom of her jaw with fury, clenching and holding shut her lips with his fingers, refusing to budge. Her eyes shot open, her gaze locked with Titus, his eyes feeling distant then. She tried shouting his name, but his hand was too tight. He raised the revolver into sight, between their faces, then to his lips, replacing a finger to shush her. He made the sound and she shivered, as though the air turned cold in an instant. Her flesh raised goosebumps as Titus removed his hand from her mouth. She didn’t scream. She only kept staring in horror at what she saw in her cousin. She knew nothing of what she saw in his eyes, a flame dancing, terrifying in its unfamiliarity.

  “Titus...” she whispered.

  “You’re coming with me, Rose.”

  7.

  “Lane, good to see you, son, come in, come in.”

  The voice was smooth, like the cognac that washed it daily, and deep, as the burgundy color of the desk behind it. It was controlling, and yet comforting, strong, and soothing. And the man that spoke it was large, some two hundred and eighty pounds in a body that rose over six feet. He wasn’t the tallest man, only just more so than his nephew he now invited in his office, but his presence filled in another foot atop his head.

  “You, too, Ezekiel.”

  He wrapped an arm around Lane, elbow to fingertip covering Lane’s full back, and pulled him in for a warm, but brief, embrace.

  “Good to have you home.”

  Ezekiel stepped around the desk and sat into his chair, while Lane took a seat in the chair in front of the desk. This was customary, in their respective seats with the desk placed between them, for business conversation. A bit of small talk to ease in.

  “How was your trip?”

  “Good, good. Mountains were beautiful.”

  “They are, I love them this time of year
. The air.” A small pause. “And Ricardo?”

  “Secured. He assured me their hiccup was nothing more than that. We should be receiving regular shipments again next month.”

  Finally, the grin rose on Ezekiel’s face.

  “Excellent, excellent. Now, I have another order of business. A family matter.”

  Lane felt an ache return to his muscles, the one he always felt in Verón. The one he was always reminded of whenever he returned home. He swallowed a groan and pushed down on his feet to correct his posture in his chair and stop himself from slinking down in it.

  “It’s nothing, a small errand.”

  Lane hesitated before asking, “What is it?”

  Ezekiel shifted in his chair, providing a moment of suspense.

  “Titus.”

  One word, the name, and Lane already knew. He didn’t know the details, but he knew it could only be something to do with a foolish play by his troubled cousin. Likely stealing, or god forbid worse. Possibilities were quickly shot down in Lane’s mind, trumped by the realization that Titus was too weak to make such actions.

  Ezekiel allowed Lane to prepare himself before continuing. “He’s been swiping small bags from our stash and selling them on the side for some deadbeats that hold a debt over his head. I’ve let it slide for a while, I know I put that boy through a lot when I exiled him.” Ezekiel paused here, assuming the silence would show the appearance of having some sympathy, though his expression revealed none. “Problem is one of ours spotted him heading towards Sixth Street.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “Watch your mouth, son. She was troubled, but she was family.”

  Lane bowed his head apologetically.

  “Look, I just need you to take him out of there before he gets himself into the kind of trouble that gets shit into fans. As much as I would like to clear the Imada boys out of Verón, I’m not looking for a war while our source is just getting back to his feet.”

  “Understood.” Lane didn’t speak much in these meetings, his responses were commonly single words.

  Ezekiel smiled on Lane and nodded. He felt pride every time the boy took on another task. What Ezekiel didn’t notice was the way Lane’s shoulders dropped as he shut the door behind him every time he left that office.

  Lane

  It’s a job. Put in your hours day to day, put in your time during your life, then you reap the appropriate benefits. Every day, I go to work for Ezekiel, checking the supply, verifying its route, protecting the “storefront” and ensuring access to customers. The “empire” everyone loves talking about is a business. Pure and simple. I work for it. I punch in. I collect street men and school them on tactics. I establish relationships with suppliers. I beat up an Imada. I make the rounds of the corners. Check in. I punch out. I party. I drink. I get high. I get laid. I relax. I go to sleep. Then I get up and I punch in again.

  Life isn’t about glamour. If you believed Hollywood when it told you that, when you watched its razzle dazzle on the silver screen show stories of underdogs and go-getters reaching to snatch their handful of glory, of uber wealth, of whatever the fuck they were reaching for, then you’ve been duped. Probably by someone who knows the truth about it that I do and make their living day in day out by selling the product of the American Dream to you. There’s no holy grail in life. There’s an honest living, and there’s doing that well. Play games, make desperate moves, sooner or later you’ll see the wool over your eyes or you’ll be dead.

  I respect Ezekiel. He’s ruthless when it comes to opportunity, but the man understands how to achieve. It’s a shame he holds a weak spot for family. These children, Rose, Titus, Joan, all take for granted what he’s provided for them and run around the city like it’s their kingdom. Pretending it’s a dream, or a nightmare, or a game. Acting like their delusions aren’t completely transparent. Foolish. Then I have to stop the gears from turning and fix their snafus like some knight protecting the royal family. I am loyal. I have love for my cousins. But they don’t belong here, so close to the business.

  Imadas are worse. Over zealous boys making everything into a romance. There’s nothing romantic in selling drugs. Lucas dons a new title (who goes by Lucius?), dyes his hair and makes himself pretty and I’m supposed to take a truce with him seriously. Christ.

  I’ll admit this. It’s exhausting. If I were a weaker man, a dream about paradise would keep me going, too. Thinking I was stacking up my earnings, building a dream with every deal and every move and every shitty thing I had to do. Thinking all that wasn’t just for living, that it was for the ideal life, truly believing that. Yeah, I get it. I do a lot of bad shit for a bad guy. Ezekiel’s a jackass and often a thorn in my side. He dreamt once, had love and a child until he got burned. Ran off when two sisters and a brother told him he was being foolish, and rightfully so, though their own foolishness is greater to his. He learned his lesson. He tried carrying them, no doubt all three hiding behind the excuse of their parents’ horrific ending. The story is ugly, that’s true, but your parents dying doesn’t kill you. He sent my father and my aunts money for quite a while until he gave up trying to believe they were anything other than what they were. A dead junkie, trailer trash, and my own father is a coward. Grovels at the foot of a foreman his whole life. Life’s a job, but you’ve got to have self-respect. So I came to work for Ezekiel. True, dreaming led him out here and had its hand in some unfortunate business in his past. He still makes a boneheaded move now and again, especially when it comes to his nieces and his other nephew. But most of the time he has his business straight and it provides for me, so I make mine in the muck. It’s what I have. I deal with it. The idea of paradise is seductive, sure. So, I get it. But I don’t believe in it. I’m not that foolish.

  8.

  Lane lifted himself into the driver’s side of his black pickup truck, pulling himself in by the wheel and grunting as he settled himself into the seat. He shifted himself once planted, stiffening his muscles as he hands assumed their positions at ten and two. He gripped the wheel, fingers wringing it. He watched his biceps bulge as he did so, convincing himself of his strength. He spent many hours a week on his body, building it, keeping it sharp. It was to the point where some had accused him of vanity. The insults fell on deaf ears. Lane appreciated the way his build attracted a woman, or sometimes two or three at a time. But his intentions behind his routine were always in the best interest of his job. He was the biggest man in the Dicaro empire because he needed to be. Nothing reminded him more of that than while he stared at his muscles flexing in preparation for use. He was going to have to kick some ass. Though the legwork for his uncle weighed on him in this moment, there was a small part of him that swelled for the opportunity to put to good use the arms he so fastidiously sculpted.

  He took one hand off the wheel, threw the truck in reverse, turned his head over his shoulder and kicked the gas to spin the pickup out into the road with a scent of burnt rubber wafting into the air. He threw it into drive and kicked again, screeching off towards Sixth Street with a cloud of grey smoke behind him, which Ezekiel grinned at from his front door.

  Lane shot through traffic with precision, swerving in-between vehicles within inches of them, brows furrowed and eyes unblinking as they carved out the path ahead. It only took him minutes to reach his destination, coming down Sixth Street corner, where it crossed a smaller road and a warehouse sat. Across from the warehouse, Lane spotted the scene. Lucius waling on Titus, Malcolm shouting at him to stop, Nathaniel shouting at him to keep going. Lane would have laughed at how foolish the display was if he wasn’t tasked with ending it. He screeched the truck to a stop on the other side of the street, threw open his door, jumped out and slammed it shut behind him. He rounded the front and stormed across the street, not running, but walking in such a way that his chest heaved and his arms, exposed in his white beater, flexed in a menacing show of dominance. He came upon Lucius a moment after Titus hit the ground, scurrying away. He slammed Lucius against the wal
l, face within an inch and scowling.

  “Hey, you piece of shit! You need to chill the fuck out!” To get his point across, Lane threw a half-strength slug to Lucius’s gut. Lucius coughed and his eyes closed a moment. Then they reopened with fury.

  “Sixth Street is ours!” Lane ignored the spit that transferred to his face.

  “Lane, come on, man!” Malcolm pleaded. Lane paid no attention. Nathaniel made a move, but his thin frame was cast aside by a sweep of Lane’s arm as he saw the boy coming from the corner of his eye.

  Lane whispered for emphasis, “Just because my cousin fucked up doesn’t mean you have the right to beat on him like a goddamn punching bag.”

  Lucius had not calmed down. “You bastards need to respect our territory!”

  “And you Imada shitheads need to recognize where you belong.”

  Lucius’s eyes narrowed. “Where we belong?”

  “You heard me, Lucas.”

  Hearing the name he left on the east coast caused his blood to surge, and for a moment, overpower Lane. He shoved back, forcing Lane to stumble backwards. Lucius stepped forward and swung, landing a single punch to the side of Lane’s face. Without a moment’s hesitation, Lane returned with a swing of his own that twisted Lucius’s head in a way that caused Malcolm to cringe. Nathaniel leapt onto Lane’s back, but his boyish fists did no damage as Lane continued to bludgeon Lucius with only weak and misfired punches returned. In the scuffle, Nathaniel was thrown from Lane’s back to fall hard on his spine, rolling on the pavement from the pain. Malcolm stepped in, wrapping himself around Lane, trying for a hold to stop him, but finding Lane’s brawn unaffected by the resistance.

  As Nathaniel rubbed his back and forced back tears, his ears perked at the sound of something in the distance. At first he thought it was perhaps a ringing from his fall, but as the sound grew stronger, it became all too clear.