Burning Down

by Venero Armanno

  …

  He was confident, excited; Diego knew this night was his night. When Roberto asked him why such cheer he replied, ‘No more need to worry, mi hijo, all is well.’ When the boy insisted on knowing, Diego patted his son’s cheek with affection and told him plain as day, ‘The corner is turned.’

  The boy simply looked at him in confusion.

  It was very busy. Roberto had enough to do. Tonight Miranda was in charge, so Diego told her he wasn’t to be disturbed, then moved to his office and locked its door. He hung his coat over the back of a chair and removed his patterned tie, draping it over one of the jacket’s shoulders. Next he unbuttoned his shirt collar. Liking this freedom he removed his shoes and socks. He even loosened his belt two notches.

  Diego rolled up the sleeves of his silk shirt and arranged his small black-and-white television into the position he favoured. Next week he’d treat himself to a more expensive unit, one of those new colour things. Extraordinary the marvels time brings. Though his desk remained strewn with a hundred invoices and bills demanding attention, Diego eased back into his leather chair with a glass of aged Tempranillo, all the better to take in the live telecast of an important horserace.

  To his surprise, if not out and out annoyance, the main event had entered its full-blooded second half, horses pounding the track. Diego had to frown. How had he missed the start?

  Time has its marvels but it also slips away too easily. Had he really allowed this to happen?

  No, no. It must be those fools at the track, started too early.

  As he watched, Diego forgot his wine, his office, the bistro. The race became his universe. He was focused on the flying hooves of horses, the finish line approaching. After Carmelino’s surprising visit Diego had consulted the form guides for all Australian states and had made a number of telephone calls to men in the know. Then, with deepening certainty, it had come to him: where to place his bet. He didn’t hedge. All the new cash Junior had handed to him, on the nose.

  My love is and has always been a Spanish sweetheart named Miranda, and so there’s the key.

  The horses flew and despite his confidence Diego’s left hand drummed a silent staccato against his thigh. The small screen was busy with clod-kicking hooves and riding crops relentless in their whipping.

  ‘… and it could just be today’s long shot’s the sure shot because Spanish Sweetheart’s stealing her way on the inside, cutting through that pack with a burst of power—’

  Diego’s body half lifted from the chair.

  ‘—astronomical odds to be ahead by a nose—’

  As he lived it. Lived yet another horserace.

  ‘—but look at this she can’t keep the surge here comes Omega Boy and its Mr Hercules pulling away from both and the Sweetheart’s flagging in the final stretch with Orion pushing past to give us Omega Boy the winner! Then Mr Hercules number two Racing Thunder three and Spanish Sweetheart not placed, well back …’

  Diego dropped into his chair. With numbing fingers he reached forward and turned the television off. Even as he did the telephone started to ring. Junior, of course, or one of his men. Diego’s extravagant bet wouldn’t have gone unnoticed.

  He wouldn’t do the new addition of how much he now owed. He refused to pick up the receiver. When it rang out he emptied his wineglass in two long swallows.

  All right, all right, all right.

  Next was the promise of Old Terry’s money in Carmelo’s hands. Diego dressed himself properly, and only when he was perfect did he make his call.

  …

  Jesus, the way things turned out. He’d racked his brain for days and damned if it wasn’t his papi who’d figured out the answer. Same as it had always been. And the stupidest thing was that if he’d listened to Sissy he could have done it himself.

  Papi and Mr Smoke sat with two glasses and the bottle of Cava he’d opened for them. Despite the quality of the sparkling wine he saw neither man could drink. Bobby couldn’t either. He was heavy in the heart for the circumstances that had brought these men here tonight. Poor Papi, needing to explain in long, heartbreaking terms the secret lengths he’d gone to find a buyer. He’d even offered the bistro to the Castillos for next to nothing. Yet, just as everyone else in this town with money and brains, the accountants hadn’t wanted to take the property off Papi’s hands, long-time family friends or not. So his father had informed him, voice trembling with emotion.

  ‘We hope for one thing now, mi hijo.’

  So this was where Sistine’s father came in. He was here with an old backpack stuffed full of cash.

  How could Bobby have known this man would have money enough to drag the Domingos out of their hole? And such big money didn’t come from bricklaying jobs and careful saving. Once upon a time did Mr Smoke rob a bank or something, just the way Bobby couldn’t? He’d have to find out one day … then again, maybe not. This man would be his father-in-law.

  Not that Sistine wanted to talk about that.

  God, he wished he was with her now.

  Sistine was with his mother tonight, over at the family home. Miranda had offered dinner to uncles and cousins. The house would be full of people. Days ago Bobby had had a locksmith come to Sistine’s flat and place a new deadlock on her door, plus deadbolts at the top and bottom. Still, during tonight’s transaction he’d wanted her well away from any potential trouble. And after this? Oh, man, he’d get her out of that flat into a great apartment. Shortly thereafter he’d move in; definitely they’d set a date.

  The restaurant was closed for the evening. Bobby’s mamá had called anyone with a booking to let them know there was a small problem in the kitchen. Bobby had printed a sign to hang on the front door: Con sincero pesar. With sincere regret.

  Despite this, Papi had invited his old boxing friends, those older men who ate at the bistro five nights a week. Strength in numbers? His father kept thinking ahead, no doubt about it. The kitchen was closed, so Bobby had made rolls with artichokes and Spanish ham for the three old boxers.

  ‘And let the bastards have a few bottles of wine on the house,’ his father laughed. That levity of his, that outward bravery, made Bobby both love and worry for Papi even more.

  The grizzled three—Bobby imagined they might have twenty teeth between them—were at a back table removed from where Papi sat with Mr Smoke and their untouched Cava. Billy Connors, Dan McGavin and the one sometimes known as ‘Doctor Irish’ weren’t so reticent. They ate their rolls, drank heartily and enjoyed round after round of Texas hold’em. Cash and coins were scattered on the table, an increasing pot that shifted ownership with each win and loss. The men smoked, cackled in their old men’s way, groaned when things didn’t go right and cursed the general state of the world. Bobby thought them his father’s witnesses; maybe a wily move after all.

  ‘But you, Robertino, if you have to be here then stay out of things. We don’t want Junior’s people to think you’re involved. Get into that kitchen and stay there. Everything is under control.’

  Bobby looked at the clock. Jesus, but it was almost time. His father shot him a glance. Bobby hesitated, then did as his father wanted. Inside the kitchen the lights were off. He fumbled about and found the wedge Esteban sometimes used to keep the doors open and slid it into place; it allowed him just an extra crack of space to watch and listen.

  He saw Mr Smoke look at his father and say, ‘They going to be on time or what?’

  There was a firm rap against the square glass of the bistro’s front door.

  Bobby watched his father and Mr Smoke push back their chairs. His father moved across the floor and turned the key in the lock. The three old guys quietened. Bobby felt acid and adrenaline pour into his belly. Mike stepped in first.

  ‘Who the fuck’s this?’ he said to Papi, meaning Sissy’s father.

  ‘He has your money.’

  ‘Strangers aren’t welcome. An
d the old pricks up the back?’

  ‘Friends with their weekly card game.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, you’re as soft in the head as Terry says. Get them out of here.’

  Bobby saw a rictus of combined suspicion and anger in Mike’s face. He noted how the second man, Denny, kept just a little apart from all of them, at a safe remove where he could see the entire dining space. Mike strode to the back of the bistro. He threw aside the unused fourth chair at the table of old men. It clattered across the floor.

  ‘Get your shit and get out.’

  ‘Finish this hand.’ Billy Connors spoke in something of a wheeze, about as withered as a string of bark and with a single tooth dead centre of his mouth.

  ‘Connors. And “Machine Gun” McGavin. Hopeless the both of you. Fucking lightweights never threw a good punch in your lives. Work the horses shovelling shit now, right?’

  ‘Horses do what they do.’

  ‘And look at this one. “Doctor Irish.” Blackest most useless doctor you can think of. Irish as my arse.’

  ‘Did you enjoy my bouts?’

  ‘You were a pile of bullshit stinking up a ring.’

  ‘You’re interrupting our game.’

  Bobby saw the way Mike’s great fist smashed down onto the table, making money and cards jump.

  ‘Out.’

  They gathered up their things—cards, notes, coins, pouches of tobacco and papers—and threw down last drinks.

  Mike followed the three all the way to the door. He gave each man a hefty shove then slammed the door after them.

  ‘Any more shit to deal with?’

  Bobby saw Mike’s eye scan the restaurant again and fall on the kitchen doors.

  ‘Stop wasting our time.’ Mr Smoke lifted the backpack off the floor. ‘Here’s what you want.’

  Denny, gaunt as a runner who’d attempted far too many marathons, moved further to the side, maybe expecting the stranger to pull something out of that bag. Mike crossed the floor and put his hand out.

  ‘Better be clear first,’ Mr Smoke spoke, placing the backpack onto the table next to the Cava and stepping in front of it. ‘This is the full payment and the Domingos don’t get bothered again.’

  ‘The boss’ll decide that.’

  ‘The money stays where it is until we agree.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake.’ Mike studied Mr Smoke, recognising him. ‘It’s Smokin’ Charlie.’

  ‘All right, let’s get acquainted. You work for Junior but what’s your name?’

  ‘Mike. That’s all you need.’

  ‘And him?’

  ‘Denny.’

  ‘Good. Now listen, all the money’s here so from this moment on things are done and over. Or I take this home.’

  Bobby wished he could make out the glances that travelled between the four men. Cowering here he was small and insignificant, useless as a ten-year-old when he’d wanted to be the one to solve his father’s problem.

  ‘I’ll count it,’ he heard Mike say, ‘before we talk any more.’

  ‘All right, good luck. It’s a lot.’

  Mr Smoke turned for the backpack and hefted it forward. Even Bobby could see the awkwardness of his movement, the way Mr Smoke kept his left arm tight to one side.

  ‘Wait. Stop. Don’t move.’

  Mr Smoke stopped.

  ‘What are you hiding?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  Mike was more agitated than ever now, staring hard at Mr Smoke then surveying the entire bistro once more.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Mike asked, voice low and threatening.

  ‘Nothing. The money’s in front of you.’

  He slapped the backpack out of Mr Smoke’s hand and pushed him backwards against the table. Bobby saw his father step out of the way as if he didn’t want to be involved.

  ‘Put your arms out.’

  Mr Smoke did, but Mike didn’t like how far his left arm was out and pushed it higher. A groan escaped Mr Smoke’s throat. That didn’t help. Mike stared as if trying to understand the trick in the man. Bobby wondered what was wrong with Mr Smoke. No one moved. Mr Smoke’s left arm, held up, started trembling. He couldn’t see Mr Smoke’s face. Mike waited and waited, then he expertly patted Mr Smoke down. He turned him and did it again.

  Not satisfied, Mike took one step back.

  ‘What wrong with you?’

  ‘Sore arm.’

  Mr Smoke lowered both arms. He seemed, somehow, to slump over the backpack on the table. Yet he picked it up and tried again.

  ‘It’s getting late. Just count it.’

  Mike wouldn’t.

  Now Bobby realised he could no longer see Denny. The man had moved so far apart from the others that he had to be against a wall, maybe even very close to the kitchen doors. The mistrust, and fear, in Mike’s face was very clear. Then he saw Mike nod with his chin toward the exact point where Bobby was hiding. He wanted Denny to investigate.

  Oh, God, but Bobby could feel it all again, the fists pounding him into submission, the faces leering over him, and the stench of that alley as he lay on the wet ground bleeding. Then the ring, that stupid, worthless friendship ring in Mike’s huge palm, portent of more cruelty to come.

  Bobby swallowed hard. He reached into the back waistband of his trousers, under his coat, where he’d seen innumerable good and bad guys keep a pistol. In his hand now the .38 felt thick and heavy.

  Bobby used his shoulder to ease open the door. Straight in front of him was this skin and bone man, Denny. Bobby held the .38 out in both hands, finger on the trigger.

  Denny took five quick steps back, both palms in front of him as if to catch a bullet out of the air. ‘Okay, okay,’ he said.

  ‘You prick,’ Mike said, looking at Bobby’s father. ‘You’re fucked now.’

  Both Papi and Mr Smoke turned.

  Bobby felt himself step forward, moving slow, yet somehow in control of the nerves that usually wanted to shake his bones loose. He wouldn’t shake any more. He wouldn’t be a child hiding on his father’s instructions.

  This moment—this moment had been coming so long.

  ‘Boy,’ Mike spoke, ‘it won’t work.’

  Bobby turned the barrel toward him. He remembered that in the alley Denny hadn’t touched him, but this one, Mike, oh, yes.

  ‘Don’t take that bag. Don’t do anything.’

  ‘Robertino, turn around. Go into the kitchen and leave by the back door. Hurry. Everything’s under control.’

  ‘Papi, these men will never leave us alone. They’ll take that money and then they’ll be back to take everything we’ve got.’

  ‘Leave us, please.’

  ‘You said it yourself. If you open your door, you can’t blame them for walking in. They know they can get money from us. So why would they stop?’

  Mike moved to the side so that Mr Smoke was between him and the gun. Denny also moved, no longer backwards but again to the side, widening the distance Bobby’s .38 had to cover.

  Bobby understood those moves. He crossed the floor so that both men were in his sights.

  ‘Get out of the way, Papi.’

  He saw his father stay where he was, frozen.

  ‘Bobby,’ Mike spoke. ‘Stay cool. We won’t do anything till you tell us. You’re the boss.’

  Bobby felt as if all the adrenaline had left his body. His belly no longer squirmed. He felt himself calm.

  ‘Am I the boss?’ he asked.

  He stepped closer to Mike. He wanted to see what the man looked like with a pistol in his face.

  ‘Roberto …’ his father tried to speak with authority, yet his voice petered away.

  Denny took another step. Bobby twitched the gun toward him.

  ‘You don’t believe I’m the boss?’

  As Bobby’s eyeli
ne moved, Mike’s hand slid into his coat and he pulled out a lump of iron wrapped in black tape. Then it all happened in a flash, Bobby barely aware of the way Mr Smoke swivelled and half stepped, a cracking right hook sending Mike back with blood bursting from his nose. Bobby jerked the .38 toward him and he felt the satisfying squeeze of the trigger. At the same time Papi pushed Bobby’s arm down. The deafening crack kicked up splinters and wood from the floor two metres ahead.

  Over the ringing in his ears Bobby heard Denny breathe. ‘Jesus.’

  Mr Smoke collected Mike’s blackjack. He placed it on the table and now Bobby let his father ease the gun from his grip. Papi snapped the safety on, but Bobby knew the others hadn’t seen that.

  Holding the gun safe at his side, his father asked, ‘What do you have?’ and Denny opened his coat to reveal no weapon at all. Then Papi slid a chair out for Bobby, who now felt himself shake, from deep inside, shock travelling through him. His hand, his arm, his entire body seemed to reverberate to that one shot. And his ears were still ringing.

  Bobby saw Mike spit blood to the floor. He pulled a patterned red cloth off the nearest table and held it to his nose. Then he reached for the blackjack. Mr Smoke picked it up and held it.

  ‘Carmelino,’ Bobby heard his father say. ‘I don’t know what we do.’

  It looked like Mr Smoke didn’t know either. Through his shock Bobby was vaguely aware of the way Sistine’s father hesitated. The look on his face might have said he was wondering how things could have turned so bad. Then, as if relenting to some new or maybe even inevitable idea, he handed the makeshift blackjack back.

  Mike took it.

  ‘What’s happened just now,’ Mr Smoke said, ‘it doesn’t mean anything. It’s natural for people to get nervous.’

  That conciliatory tone; Bobby wondered if it only revealed weakness and returned the upper hand to Junior’s men.