Blood on Blood

by Frank Zafiro

  “You know we have a plastic tub for that, right?” I asked her.

  “I know,” she said, clattering the armload of dishes into the sink. “I don’t need it.”

  I wiped my hands on a towel. When she reached for the large nozzle and started rinsing the dishes, I stepped up behind her and put my mouth to her ear.

  “See you later on, right?”

  She froze for a second, and I knew right away what that meant.

  Steve was back.

  Steve, the high school jock and grown up jerk off, worked on a freighter that sailed out of Chicago. The ship’s name was Sweetness, named for the famous running back from this city of broad shoulders, and that, as far as I was concerned, was about the only good thing about Steve. More than once, I wished the prick worked on a ship called the Edmund Fitzgerald instead.

  “I can’t,” she whispered, but I’d already stepped back. She glanced over her shoulder at me, her eyes a little bit apologetic. But there was also a little bit of worry that Steve might find out about us. More than anything, she was pissy about the whole situation.

  I shrugged. My hands were already untying my apron and balling it up. “I gotta go,” I said.

  The apology drained from her expression, and that little bit of worry, too. That just left pissy. “Don’t be that way,” she said, her voice still in a whisper. She glanced out toward the dining area and then back at me.

  That almost made me laugh. Who cares at this point if Eddie figures it out? How long has he owned this place? Seven, eight years? And how many times in all those years has it turned out that the help was sleeping together? Hell, he probably dabbled in that arena himself.

  “You’ve got no right to be pissed off,” she said. “You know the way it is.”

  “Yeah,” I said, grabbing my jacket off the rack and slipping my arms into it. “I do. It’s fucked up. That’s how it is.”

  “He’s my husband.”

  “He’s an asshole.”

  “He pays the rent.”

  “So he’s a rent-paying asshole,” I said. “You don’t even love him, Connie. If you did, you wouldn’t be fucking me.”

  A quick, little shadow passed over her face, then was gone. “Is that all we’re doing? Just fucking?”

  I tossed my apron into the laundry bag in the corner. “Oh, now you want to pretend it’s something else? Well, if that’s the case, why are you still with Sailor Boy Steve?”

  “I’m stuck,” she said. “All right? I’m stuck.”

  “Don’t act trapped,” I said. “It’s not like you’ve got kids with this guy.”

  “I’ve got bills,” she said. Her voice still came in a harsh whisper. “Who’s going to pay those? You? On a grill man’s wages?” She snorted. “You barely get forty hours a week.”

  Truth was, I got thirty-five a week. That saved Eddie on paying me benefits, which I didn’t give a shit about either way. He paid me an extra five hours off the books for that, and we both came out ahead.

  “So you’re staying with a guy who treats you like shit because of money?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “You know what, Connie?” I said. “They have a word for that.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes. Her jaw set and she shook her head slightly. “No. Don’t you say it.”

  It was too late, though. I could see that. She wasn’t ever going to leave Steve. Hell, I should have seen it all along, but I thought there might be a chance somehow. I got suckered in by long walks downtown after a movie, by long talks over coffee and by long sessions of fucking at my apartment.

  We might have been able to make a go of it, but it was too late now. Because she was choosing Steve for whatever fucked up reasons she had. And I was pissed off about it and maybe a little hurt, too, which pissed me off even more. And there was no way I could stop the words from tumbling out of my mouth.

  “You want to be a whore, Connie?” I shrugged. “You go right ahead. But personally, I don’t think you’re worth the money.”

  That was that. There was no coming back from it now. We were done. And probably one of us was going to be looking for another job soon, because although Eddie didn’t seem to care who was banging who around this place, he didn’t put up with any bullshit when it came to attitudes.

  I turned to go, walking out of the kitchen instead of past her to the back door and the alley. I knew if I did that, I’d catch a whiff of her perfume and regret everything I’d just said.

  As soon as I pushed open the door to the dining area, I wished I’d taken the alley instead. Two mopes, obviously muscle for somebody, were clustered around Eddie, who was backed up to the wall near the cash register. The larger of the two, a small mountain with a shock of black hair, stood with his face only a few inches from Eddie. The other one had a finger poised over the cash register. He was wiry, with a mean, hawk-like face.

  “What the fuck?” Hawk-face said. His voice betrayed a thick, Eastern European accent. Not guttural enough for Russian. Probably Polish.

  I wanted to sigh, say to hell with it and turn around. Leave by the alley way and mind my own business. But it was too late for that. And one look at Eddie’s scared eyes anchored me to the spot.

  “What the fuck back,” I said.

  The two exchanged a confused glance. Then Hawk-face said, “Get the fuck out of here. This is none of your business.”

  I shook my head. “He signs my paycheck. If you take all his money, I don’t get paid. So I can’t let you rob the place.”

  Hawk-face looked at me for another second, then burst into laughter. He glanced over at his partner and motioned toward me. “Get a load of this guy, Jiri. He thinks we’re robbers.”

  The mountain of muscle that was Jiri smiled coldly. “Neni pravda.”

  “Nope,” Hawk-face said, turning back to me. “Not the truth at all.”

  We stood in silence for a long moment, each of us sifting through our options. I kept my eyes locked on Hawk-face but used my peripheral vision to check their hands. No guns. So it was two on two. I’d never seen Eddie fight, but the little guy had to be better than nothing.

  “Well, we’re closed,” I finally said. “Unless you want a cup of coffee for the road, you’d better go.”

  Hawk-face shook his head. “He owes us money.”

  “He borrowed from you?” I looked at Eddie, who shook his head slightly.

  “Not your business,” Hawk-face said.

  “I see. Protection money, then.”

  “Businesses need protection.” Hawk-face smiled. “It’s a tough neighborhood.”

  “It’s not a Polish neighborhood,” I told him.

  His face darkened. “We are not polski.”

  I pointed at Jiri. “His name is Polish. It means George.”

  “We are cesky.”

  Czechs? I hadn’t expected that. “Same thing,” I said with a shrug, knowing goddamn well that it was very different. At least to them. “Either way, this is an Irish block and this is an Irish diner. So maybe you should leave.”

  Hawk-face stared at me a few moments longer. Recognition seeped into his narrow features. “I know you,” he said, though I could tell he didn’t yet. But he recognized me. That much I could see. He just hadn’t placed me yet.

  “Well, I don’t know you,” I said. “And if you leave now, I never did.”

  He continued to stare. Then Jiri said two words-“Sawyer bratr”-and Hawk-face smiled.

  “That’s right,” he said. “Jiri knows. You are one of Gar Sawyer’s sons. With the different mothers.”

  I didn’t answer, but I knew what was coming next.

  “You’re the Irish one,” Hawk-face said. “The one who was a cop.”

  Right then, whatever hope of this ending well went right out the window. And just like with Connie, I should have seen that walking in.

  I walked toward Hawk-face in a steady, fast stride. He watched me come, but his hands slipped to his waist band. Jiri started to move away from Eddie, but the owner
read my obvious play and kicked the larger man in the knee. Jiri grunted and turned his attention back to Eddie. I focused on Hawk-face.

  He was quicker than I expected. His hand flashed out from beneath his jacket. If he’d been carrying heat, I would’ve been dead. Instead, he snapped open a silver blade with a solid click and held it out.

  “Come on, pig,” he said, his voice dropping to a low hiss. He waved the blade back and forth in front of him. “Show me what you got.”

  I wasn’t as big as when I went through the police academy years ago and probably not as strong, either. But I was faster. And meaner.

  I raised my hands defensively, masking the motion of my leg. I lashed out with a foot, landing a thundering blast on Hawk-face’s upper leg. He let out a cry of pained surprise. The flowing motion of the knife froze in mid-air. I reached out, grasped his wrist and twisted it as hard as I could. I felt rather than heard the resounding pop that came next.

  “Sakra!” he yelled.

  His knees gave way and he started to fall. I helped him with an arm bar, slamming him into the linoleum. His breath came out in a loud woof.

  I let go immediately and stood up to face Jiri, who I knew would be coming hard. Sure enough, the muscle bound prick was barreling toward me. Eddie clung to one arm, blood flowing from his nose and mouth. The tough little bastard was reaching for a bicep with his teeth bared, looking to lay a bite on Jiri.

  Jiri was a big guy and like most big guys, he came at me without any caution. I fired a left at his nose, landing a light shot. My right came blasting in right after. I timed it perfectly. His forward motion and my fist combined for a hellacious punch that stopped him cold in his tracks. The force of the blow reverberated up my arm and into my shoulder.

  I didn’t hesitate. Like a jackhammer, I alternated lefts and rights straight down his middle. Throat, solar plexus and stomach, then a hard, right upper cut to the balls.

  Jiri didn’t fall, but he hunched over after the final punch.

  Eddie bit his bicep.

  I drove my knee up into his face.

  Jiri let out a guttural cry of pain. Blood gushed out of his nose. His hands flew to his face.

  I turned back to Hawk-face, who was starting to push himself up. I threw two booming kicks into his side. There was no technique, just brute force and all that I could muster. He fell back to the ground, curling up in a ball.

  Jiri let out another painful grunt. I turned to see him shove Eddie aside as the smaller man tried to get his mouth on Jiri’s bicep again. Eddie staggered back. He looked at me, then at Jiri and Hawk-face, wondering what to do next.

  I reached down and picked up the knife. There was a piece of me that wanted to jam the blade into Jiri’s chest and yell, “See? This is who the fuck I am!” But I didn’t. Maybe I wasn’t a cop anymore, but I didn’t want to spend the next fifty years on the run or in a prison cell, either.

  I closed the blade and tossed the knife to Eddie. He juggled twice but finally caught it.

  “Get up,” I told Hawk-face. “Get up and get the fuck out.”

  Hawk-face groaned but didn’t move. Jiri pulled his hands away from his face. They were covered in blood, but the bleeding from his nose had already stopped. He was warrior stock, this one. I think that if it weren’t for the fact that Hawk-face was clearly in charge, Jiri would’ve fought to the death. Because for guys like him, every fight is to the death.

  Reluctantly, Jiri seemed to accept that this was over. He reached down and helped Hawk-face to his feet. His motions were gentle.

  “You broke my fucking rib, you cocksucker,” Hawk-face sputtered.

  I ignored his words. “Don’t come back,” I said. “We’ll go to the Irish for protection. Even if they’re not interested, the Polacks will be. Either one of them will do more than bust your ribs. They’ll kill you and your boss. So stay the fuck away.”

  Jiri helped Hawk-face toward the door. The smaller man sneered at me. “You might be right, you cop fuck. The micks can have this pile of shit place. But that doesn’t protect you. And I’ll see you again.”

  I didn’t answer. Jiri supported Hawk-face as they went out the door.

  “I’ll see you again, kunda,” Hawk-face said as the door swung shut.

  When they were out of sight, I looked over at Eddie. He still seemed stunned.

  “You don’t have the Irish looking after this place?” I asked him.

  He shook himself from his reverie. “Course I do,” he snorted. He pulled a white towel from his apron and wiped the blood from his face.

  I sighed. If I’d known that, I would’ve let them take the money and leave. Eddie could report it to whoever he paid protection to and they’d deal with the Czechs. Now I had two more enemies in this world.

  Eddie pointed at my hands. “You need ice?”

  I glanced down at my knuckles and flexed both hands. They hurt a little but nothing serious. Most of my targets had been soft ones, and I landed them right.

  “No, I’m good.”

  Eddie nodded. He took a deep breath and let it out. “Jesus. Thanks, Mick.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said, though I didn’t feel it. I should’ve known he paid the Irish, but I guess you miss a few things when you’re on the grill and busy banging the waitress.

  That made me think of Connie. I turned toward the kitchen. She stood near the doorway, her cell phone perched in her hand. I could see the question on her face. Should she call 9-1-1? But it’d been over too fast.

  I looked back at Eddie and shrugged. “I’ll see you tomorrow, boss.”

  “Yeah,” Eddie said. “See you tomorrow.”

  I headed back toward the kitchen and the alley exit, because this time I wanted to walk past Connie. I wanted to smell her perfume. I wanted her to smell the sweat on me. Let her know some regret. Because I knew full well who was going to be looking for a job in a few days, and it wasn’t me.

  “Say hi to Steve for me, baby,” I said as I swept by her. I continued through the doors to the kitchen and out the alley exit before she could answer.

  FIVE

  Jerzy

  As we’re weaving through the backroom and small kitchen on our way to Patrik’s office, I notice not too much has changed back here, either. Except the big bodies. Lots of muscle around every corner.

  Like the bar and main room out front, the hallways are long and low. The lighting is bad and if I hadn’t been here a million times, I’d be bumping into walls and corners.

  We make a left and down on the end of the hallway will be Patrik’s office, right across from the old man’s. The music is muffled now but thumping away all the while and it sure sounds like K.C. singing about how that’s the way, uh huh, uh huh, he likes it. I mean, I got Polish blood in me and all, but sweet Jesus, what the fuck with this music?

  Uh huh, Uh huh. Thump, thump. Hey, I guess it’s better than the shines with their fuckin’ rap or the micks with their stupid ass jigs.

  I can see that a monster with a flat square face and crew cut is standing down there waiting for us. I nod at him. He just looks at me like I’m a rib eye steak and he hasn’t eaten in a week. While Patrik is unlocking his office door, I look over at the closed door of old man Ambrozy’s office.

  “Ambrose ever make it in here anymore?”

  “Naw Jerz, not too much….not too much. Ambrose is old and tired. Tato, he is old school and he just doesn’t like the way the world is now. He gave the business end of it up, gave me the reins so to speak. We’re up against some shit right now that he doesn’t even understand.”

  Opening the door to his office, Patrik steps aside and waves me in with a real flourish, like he’s the doorman at the Hyatt fuckin’ Regency or something.

  I look around the office. “Holy shit Patrik, this is even grander than before. Did you hire a gay designer here or what?”

  The place is all low lit with recessed lighting and nice table lamps. Everything is different shades of black and brown, with lots of leather. The walls,
the furniture, the fucking carpet, everything is all color coordinated.

  “I mean what the fuck?” I’m turning and staring around the room like a dumbass.

  “What you think Jerz, hey?”

  “Looks like business is good my friend, but I mean c’mon though, somebody had to help you deck this place out. You could never even buy a suit for yourself without looking like a circus ringmaster.”

  I laugh and slap him on the back. He laughs and gives me a shove. He walks behind a big ass mahogany desk and flops down in a leather chair, then motions for me to sit down. “The Dudek family has always had class. We have a taste for fine things and culture, Jerzy. Something I don’t expect a peasant like you to really comprehend.”

  Another round of laughs. Patrik has always been on my good side, somebody I could actually call a friend. That, I’ll guarantee you, is a very short list.

  He turns around to the little credenza bar behind him and grabs two glasses. “Now, my old kumpel, how about that Belvedere I promised you?”

  “I see my bottle, where’s yours?”

  He pours two vodkas and we clink.

  “Salut.”

  “Salut.”

  After three or four drinks and kicking around the younger years a little bit, I figure it’s time to get down to some business before we just keep right on going and get blind stinking drunk.

  “So, Patrik, I’m back in the game after being on a little vacation. That vacation was because of a little something I did for Ambrose. Well, shit, what am I talking about here, huh?” I smile all nice and easy. “You remember it right? You were there in that meeting with the old man. Right across the hall from here.” I motion with a thumb over my shoulder.

  “Hey Jerz, whattaya think? It’s me here, okay?” His hands are up, palms towards me. His feelings look hurt. His eyes are all mopey and shit. “What the fuck? You’re acting like there’s some kind of problem here.”

  This is when you have to watch Patrik because he’s about as crazy as I am. When he gets all sentimental and acting soft, you gotta watch things. When he’s into the drink pretty heavy, it’s even worse. My Berretta Storm is nice and snug in the shoulder holster and that makes me feel a little better, but not a whole lot.