by L. J. Wilson
Sebastian had seen no benefit in making the burden Bim’s.
As Bim—an immigrant from a destitute, brutal country—left he seemed to take civilization with him.
Andor was back in the doorway. “Verdict?” he said.
“He thinks the ribs were cracked, not broken.”
“If they are as thick as your skull, this would be likely.” Instead of a cigar, he sipped clear liquid—Tsipouro, a homeland drink that always made the voyage. At the pier, Andor had collected a new batch along with his son. “And how long until you are on your feet—this is what I need to know from… your friend.”
Sebastian figured his bedridden state was holding up supply and demand. Andor couldn’t make the trips, and he trusted no one but Sebastian with the movement of product. He tried to boost himself up, but pain thwarted the effort. “I can’t haul crates, but I can be back to overseeing cargo in a few days. Bim wants me to start walking outside. If I can do that—”
Andor pounded into the room. Sebastian withdrew into the sour sheets. But it was the open shade that had his father’s attention. He pulled it down. “I told you not to raise it.”
“The light’s not bothering me like it was. I feel like a mole in here, Pater.”
“Better a live mole than a dead son.”
“What does that mean?”
“Sebastian…” He glanced up. His father rarely called him anything but Bash. Then he did something even more curious and sat on the edge of his son’s bed. “It’s not your return to the dock that concerns me. It’s your life. You need to leave here. It’s been weeks since you came back. I’ve been in constant contact with your Uncle Paulos. We don’t have a name. We don’t know how or where the supply went bad. I do know it was grade-A product when I picked it up in Philadelphia. My source would not tamper with it. Paulos and I tested it.” Andor banged the heel of his hand to his head, truly confounded. “I don’t know if another crew member learned the safe’s combination or if it’s a scam by our own Godfathers in Greece… It could be either.”
“It wasn’t the crew,” Sebastian insisted. He glanced sheepishly at Andor, thinking his father’s second stab at an explanation sounded plausible. “But a double cross on the other end… maybe that was it. Maybe they only said it was a bogus shipment.”
“Why would they do that? Besides, without proof… and without returning the $100,000 they spent on product they say was no more than baby powder…Well, the Godfathers will take the inch of life you have left.”
As the words sunk in, Sebastian went numb, wanting to become part of the bed—something inanimate. Something that couldn’t feel.
“You are young, Bash. I kept you for as long I could at the low end of the business—a simple courier shouldn’t end up with a price on his head. But the Godfathers of the Night, it takes them years to gain trust. They do not have that trust in you.”
“And beating me… dumping me off at the dock wasn’t the end?”
“No. It was a warning. A warning they will make good on.”
Sebastian pushed past the lump in his throat. “What, exactly, are you saying, Pater?”
“I’m saying you can’t walk on the sidewalk in our neighborhood. You can’t ever go back to the dock or sail to Greece. I’m saying if you don’t leave here soon, they’re going to kill you.”
Damning the pain, he pulled himself up and met his father’s eye. The inch of height seemed to have evened. “And where am I supposed to go, Pater? Do I just disappear into the streets of New York or LA? Would I be safe there?”
“I doubt it very much. The Godfathers of the Night, they’re strong in New York. They have firm connections on the West Coast. You’d still be a dead man.”
A shudder rippled past Sebastian’s cracked ribs. “What then? Do I spend my life running?” He shook his head. “Seedy, low-life way of earning a living—drugs, mafia, dirty money. I hate that I was born into it.” And for the first time, Sebastian wanted out of that life. Damn, he wanted his own.
“Gios…” Andor said. “You are right.”
Sebastian stared, fairly certain he’d never heard those words come out of his father’s mouth.
“I am a ruffian with unsavory ties. But when I came to America, it was with a debt. I did what was needed to repay it. I never moved past it. I was busy feeding you and your mother. I should have been wiser—”
Sebastian listened harder.
“I should have taught you something more than a questionable trade and taking pride in fucking women. But…”
Sebastian watched as a contemplative breath pulled in and out of his father.
“If you think I wish to watch my gios die…” A quiver settled over Andor’s square chin. He didn’t finish the sentence, which only told Sebastian how grave the situation was. “Right now, the Godfathers are searching for you in Atlantic City. Paulos led them on this trail. Your uncle has done a great deal to keep you safe, and not without risk. But it won’t last. That’s why I need to know your ability to move about, to travel.”
“That’s comforting,” Sebastian said. “Where do you suggest I go?”
“I have a business acquaintance. He owes me a substantial favor—”
“No,” Sebastian said, making the strongest motion he could with his free arm. “No more Godfathers… No more contraband.”
“This is different. You’ll be safe there for as long as is necessary. This man… his people, they won’t cross me. Just do as they say and don’t make trouble. But you need to leave—tonight if possible.”
“Where are you shipping me off to, Pater?”
“Not far. The Godfathers of the Night, their net is large. Sometimes the best hiding place is in plain sight… odd but plain sight. If you think you can manage, you can leave for Good Hope right away.”
Sebastian felt like contraband being shuttled from a large sedan to the back seat of a station wagon. The sedan had smelled of cigarettes and cheap ouzo, the station wagon a sweeter scent—like a bakery. But smells were nothing compared to the striking difference in language. As Andor’s colleagues drove, the car had filled with familiar Greek accents and the crude talk that went with the place Sebastian called home. It all changed without ceremony as Sebastian and his duffel bag were handed off to the two men in the station wagon.
The sun crept up and he was plunged into more light than he’d seen in weeks. The men in front spoke in whispers and plain language. No cursing. When he croaked a question, the man in the passenger seat—clean-shaven, older than him—looked at Sebastian like he was livestock, like the idea that he’d speak was crazy. Without answering, the passenger faced forward. Waves of nausea kept Sebastian from asking anything else. Along the way, he thought he saw a wooden cross dangling from the rearview mirror. It was as out of place as the men and their sanitized conversation.
For miles he drifted in and out of sleep until the highway shifted to the bump of an unpaved road. Opening his eyes, he saw chips of blue sky and endless evergreens. Rural… isolated. He wondered if Andor had double-crossed his son, offering him to the Godfathers to save his own hide. Was it possible? Hit men could easily lead a weak prisoner to a remote patch of earth. His body left for coyotes and turkey buzzards. Finally, the station wagon rumbled to a halt. The men got out, one saying to the other, “We may need another hand, Brother. He’ll be dead weight.”
On that hint, Sebastian forced himself alert. He managed to sit up and blinked at swirling dust. He needed a plan. Outside the car was a scattering of buildings. It reminded him of an Old West town his mother had taken him to when he was five or six. Trying to gain his bearings, Sebastian took a fast inventory. No, this was more modern. Telephone wires and simple small structures—a church, houses, and a barn, maybe two. It all seemed… connected. But the buildings petered out and beyond them were fields and thick woods. Sebastian wasn’t sure about his rural survival skills, but that was where he needed to go—into the woods. The car door opened.
“Need a hand, Brother?” A man le
aned in, the one who’d sat in the passenger seat.
With his arm in a sling and his ribs still tender, Sebastian realized it was the only way of hoisting himself out of the car. He swung his long legs around, struggling with bright light. The man gripped Sebastian’s hand and his heart hammered as he stood.
“Nolan Creek,” he said. Sebastian got a good look at his face. It was as expressionless as any executioner.
He didn’t draw any more conclusions but heaved a hard left hook that connected with Nolan Creek’s jaw. It was enough to knock him to the dirt. Slowed by a hobbling run, Sebastian headed toward the trees. Since his mother had died, it’d been up to Sebastian to keep himself alive. Why should today be different? But the shouts of men weren’t far behind. He was amazed he didn’t hear gunfire. Seconds later footsteps eclipsed his. A man toppled him. Sebastian sensed that his captor’s stature was no bigger than Bim. But Sebastian’s weakened state couldn’t compete. It was all he could do to contain the searing pain.
“Where are you going, Brother? I doubt you’d last the night in these woods.” The man was straddled on top of him. Sebastian had twisted as he’d fallen and he stared up into a face. “Are you crazed in the mind in addition to your injuries? I wasn’t told of anything like that.”
Sebastian blinked hard into blue sky and blue eyes of the same color. “Who… who are you? Where am I?”
“Ah, I see my Fathers of the Right Brothers held their tongues as instructed.”
“Fathers of the…”
“Fathers of the Right,” he said again. It took a moment for Sebastian to separate the words from Godfathers of the Night. Or maybe they were an extremist offshoot—anything was possible. But as he heaved pain-filled breaths, gazing at his captor, Sebastian did not see the eyes of a killer. In fact, he wasn’t sure it was a man—or at least a full grown one. Grinning, the blue-eyed boy extended a hand. He remained straddled over Sebastian as if having been acclaimed the victor in a wrestling match. “Ezra Kane,” he said. “I’m pleased to meet you.”
For days Sebastian saw only men—strange men dressed in similar dull clothing, shirt collars buttoned to the throat, and not a whisker of facial hair. He’d been led from the main arc of buildings and down a long path, hauled into a ramshackle cabin. Compared to the outside, the inside was sterling clean, smelling of strong soap. From his bedridden position, Sebastian could see one large room and a bathroom. Furnishings were sparse. The carvings of a dove and an oddly layered star stood out, sitting like trophies on a mantel. The stone fireplace was set to the middle of the space, its flame visible from either the bed or living area. It was the cabin’s only source of heat, and it allowed Sebastian to be watched without the men coming too close. When it became marginally clear that they weren’t going to kill him—feeding him delicious soups and crusty bread that arrived warm—Sebastian let his guard ease.
The men, on the other hand, remained wary. The one who’d sat in the passenger seat of the station wagon and said his name was Nolan Creek did most of the caregiving, or maybe it was guarding. Other than his name, the brother hadn’t offered much else. He did notice the man’s intense, almost ogling stare when Sebastian limped from the bed to the john. Less frequently, the young man, Ezra, came to the cabin. He wasn’t forthcoming with information either, but on his third visit he did ask Sebastian if he was feeling better.
“Some,” he said. The man-boy had smiled and sat down to read. The day before Sebastian had discarded the sling. It was curious. For as much as the brothers saw to his food and shelter, no one paid attention to his injuries. He was still sore to the touch, but for the first time since being carted off the freighter, Sebastian felt like he might recover.
This morning when Ezra asked again how he was feeling, he finally replied with more than a nod.
“Good to hear,” Ezra said. “Shall I fill the tub?”
“Tub?”
“I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s been mentioned that you can be smelled from the door.”
Sebastian glanced down at the yellowed T-shirt he’d worn since arriving and took a quick sniff of his armpit. The leather duffel bag sat nearby, untouched. He’d almost forgotten it. Sebastian inched back from his odor and ran his hand through greasy waves of hair. Yeah, he could see where showering was a reasonable idea. Ezra moved to the bathroom and Sebastian heard water running. A bath…? Come to think of it, when he’d been in the john he did notice the giant cast iron tub had no shower. Without much difficulty, he swung his legs around to the side of the bed and peered toward the bathroom. Ezra’s backside was to him, and he was on his knees filling the tub. He continued in a man-servant way, folding a towel and placing it on the back of the toilet. The activities went on, Ezra retrieving a mirror from inside the cabinet, propping it on the sink. Shaving items followed. Who are these bizarre people, and how the hell do they know Andor Christos?
Sebastian made his way to the bathroom door. “I’m wondering, Brother,” Sebastian said, using the word all the men seemed to respond to, “are you a colony of monks?”
Ezra stood. He was so very different from Sebastian in height and build, with a complexion that rivaled snow. The man-boy almost seemed to sparkle, reminding Sebastian of a storybook character, the kind who might kiss a sleeping princess.
“Monks?” Ezra laughed. “Is that what you think of us?”
It was a notable speck of humor. “Just a guess,” Sebastian said. The few times two men had kept vigil, Sebastian listened from his bed. There was no inflection in their formal speech with conversations nearly as dull. It’d been better than a sleeping pill. The only burst of information had been about a late-season calf being born. Sebastian had rolled his eyes and rolled over. Aside from this, the men spent time reading aloud, all of it having to do with religion and the righteousness of modest, uniform behavior. Sebastian was aware that from every angle, he did not belong in this place.
Ezra turned, swishing his hand through the water. “Won’t scald you, but it’ll clean you. The Widow Vale adds lavender to the lye soap. Sorry to say it won’t catch her a husband either, but it smells better than you or the lye.”
“The Widow Vale?”
“Yes. Well, how else would you refer to an unmarried woman of such an age?”
And under his breath Sebastian mumbled, “In this place? Damn lucky, I’d think… Uh, just sounded odd, that’s all.”
Ezra stood, hands on his waist. “She fancies herself as the future Mrs. Creek. But I don’t see that happening. Brother Creek has passed on the suggestion again and again. Though I’m not sure why.”
The way Brother Creek had gazed as Sebastian walked past in his underwear to the bathroom and back—well, he had an idea. Once, in the Port of Piraeus, a drunken sailor had offered Sebastian a blowjob—or the other way around if he preferred. He’d declined, moving to the other side of the bar. It seemed the concept of homosexuality was completely lost on young Ezra, who stood before him, mild mannered, an almost effeminate body. On the other hand... “Uh, you weren’t planning on watching, were you?”
Ezra widened already large eyes. “Watch another man bathe? I should hardly think…” His fair face reddened. “Why? Do they do such things where you’re from?”
“Where I’m from?” Sebastian said, thumbing his chest. “Uh, no, not usually. Not me, anyway.”
“Good to know,” Ezra said, making a circle, wide as possible, around Sebastian as he exited the space.
Sebastian moved into the bathroom and gingerly removed his T-shirt. Ezra remained near the doorway. Maybe it was the talk of men only, but Sebastian felt overly conscious of their dissimilar frames—his lumbering and dark, Ezra’s meek and understated. It forced his next thought out of his mouth. “So the Widow Vale, is she like the only woman on your planet?”
“On our…” The sarcasm slowly connected. “Of course there are other women. Who do you think made the soups and bread and other meals? But it wouldn’t be proper to send one inside. Not with you being a strange man
in a bed—even if you are a broken one.”
“I see. I guess.”
“I understand your questions. I suppose I’d have the same myself, but my father—Reverend Kane—he feels it best we keep our distance until he’s had a chance to speak with you. He’ll tell you all you need to know.”
“Reverend Kane?”
“Yes,” he said, bending to swish the water. “Duncan Kane. He’s our sect leader.”
“Your… And when might that happen?”
“Soon, I would think.” Ezra started to shut the door but hesitated. “We’re good people,” he said as if suddenly aware of their peculiarities. “As for women, we have our share. In fact, I’ll be marrying one of the finest soon.”
“Marrying? How old are you—twenty?”
“Twenty-one last week. If I’d made it to twenty-two it might be thought Nolan Creek and I have a lot in common.”
Sebastian’s jaw hung for a second. “A confirmed bachelor, right?”
“What else would there be? Anyway, I’m one of the lucky ones—not only am I marrying the girl, but I love her dearly.”
“Would you marry her otherwise?” Sebastian asked, reminded of Bim and Vinny’s reasons for marriage.
“Hmm, it is an anointed union. But fortunately, I needn’t consider that, and neither does she. Besides, a man should have a wife, and a wife a man.”
Sebastian couldn’t get his mind around the thought, language that sounded more like 1777. And for a moment, he wondered if he’d fallen through a time warp.
Ezra pulled the door shut. But he didn’t leave the cabin, Sebastian could hear him stoke the fire and then begin reading aloud. He looked around the scant space and full tub. With Ezra reading religious materials, he guessed the bath would feel more like a baptism. Sebastian stripped off his underwear and climbed into the tub. The bruises had faded to pale yellows. He could see his ribs, guessing he’d lost a solid twenty pounds. Sebastian dunked his head in the just warm enough water.