The basement was a musty, dim place, quiet except for the constant, low hiss of a water pressurizer. Old pipes covered in duct tape ran along the ceiling, dripping brown streamers of dust like some odd species of hanging mold. The shelves, which were supposed to hold cans of preserved fruits, tinned beans and tomatoes, boxes of pasta and rice, bottles of olive oil, and Italian spices, were empty except for the occasional dusty item. At least the restaurant had frozen food left over from six months earlier, when there had been more rations. Still, it seemed dangerously empty, even for a time of famine like the one New Sancta was experiencing in all of its outer sectors.
The inside of the walk-in refrigerator always smelled like winter. Whenever he was in there Michael liked to pretend he was a forager in the Eastlands who had just hit the jackpot: a refrigerator full of abandoned goodies. Now, he could eat for weeks. Hell, he could just live down here and gorge himself on tasty—
A strange noise startled him. It sounded like leaves scraping pavement and stopped abruptly. Michael froze, listening. The sound rose again, coming from the refrigerator. He was sure of it. He was also sure of another thing—the sound was a mixture of human voices, whispering quietly and secretively. Two people, maybe three.
Were they stealing food? How did they get down here with no one noticing?
The back door, maybe. Michael grabbed the nearest makeshift weapon he could find—a wimpy metal spatula, but it would have to do—and prepared to open the first door, which led into the cramped refrigerator space.
Empty. No one inside.
The whispering rose again. Michael could hear it at the very edge of his perception, as if it weren’t a real sound at all, but something imagined. Yet it was louder now than before. He was getting closer.
Inside the refrigerator was another door that led into the much narrower freezer section. Both doors were solid blocks of wood almost six inches thick. There was no way two people whispering would be audible from the other side, but Michael could hear the muffled conversation as clearly as he could feel the cool, misty air sliding in and out of his lungs.
He pressed his ear to the freezer door. It wasn’t just two voices, or even three.
It was many.
…had to kill him, Gertrude. It was the only way to get this bread…
…Lard on sale here! Getcher cooking lard on sale! Prices so good they may not be legal…
…like that, right in the vein, and press down right there… yeah, like that… oh, that’s smooth…
He grabbed the metal latch, which was ice-cold and slick under his hand, and thought for a moment. Were there people in there? No, that was crazy. But then, what was he hearing? Lard on sale? That sounded like the lard vendor down the street. How could he hear the man’s voice all the way down here?
His hand slipped off the latch. Reaching for it again, he hesitated. He should run upstairs and tell Benny. His brother could serve as backup in case something sinister was going on in there. No, he was being melodramatic. Clearly, he was hearing things. There was no lard vendor inside the freezer.
Steadying himself with a deep breath, Michael grabbed the latch.
“Mike!”
He jerked his arm back, only opening the door a few inches. Beyond it was darkness. Had the light burned out?
“What do you want, Benny?” he said.
Michael spun around to find his brother staring at him from beyond the refrigerator’s open door, seeming slightly concerned.
“Mike, what the hell’s taking you so long? We need those patties now, you idiot. We have a customer. Might be the only one for a while, you know what I’m sayin’?”
“Ben…” Michael tried to catch his breath. “Did you hear…”
Ignoring him, Benny shoved him aside, grabbed the latch, and yanked the freezer door wide open.
“There they are. What took you boys so long?”
Terry Lanza’s face was pink, but not from anger this time. His relief at seeing Benny and Michael coming up the stairs, each of his sons carrying a box of sausage-flavored, grain-gum patties, was clearly evident.
“Mike, Benny, you kids remember Uncle Sal, right? He’s come to pay the family a little visit.”
Michael had come up the stairs after Benny and couldn’t see but a piece of the kitchen—his father standing by the stoves. The rest eased into his field of vision: the counters all covered in trays and cutting boards, a stack of bowls next to a small bucket of table salt, a set of stirring spoons hanging on the wall—followed by three men who stood near the front windows.
One stood authoritatively in front of the other two—short, with a thick head of black hair that added two inches to his height. He was Salvador Mastrano, younger brother to Michael’s father and an inspector in the Fatherland Security Department.
“Ey, Benny, come shake your uncle’s hand. Mikey—you, too. Get over here.”
They took turns shaking his hand and smelling the stink of whiskey on his breath. He didn’t come to the restaurant often, and this was the first time Michael had smelled alcohol on him. The insignia on his coat flashed—a pair of swords crossed at the hilts, the blades pointing downward.
“These two are Welcher and Boyd,” Uncle Sal said, indicating the two men leaning against the counter. “They’re working for me now.”
One of the men, Boyd, was lean and bony and looked bored. His cheeks were pockmarked, and he had missed a patch of hair on his chin during his morning shave. He picked lint off his suit, ignoring the boys. The other guy, Welcher, was taller than everyone in the room, with a head like a block of wood and thick, stocky limbs. He kept his hair shaved military-fashion and flicked his eyes around like a soldier awaiting an ambush.
“Congratulations on the promotion, Sally,” Terry said, clasping his younger brother’s hand and shaking it vigorously. “Chief Inspector, wow.” He wagged a finger at him. “You make our family proud.”
Uncle Sal lifted his hands as if to say it wasn’t his fault he was such a great guy. Then, flashing his artificially whitened teeth at Michael and Benny, he reached into his coat pocket and took out a piece of folded leather resembling a billfold or wallet.
“You boys ever seen one of these?” Waggling his eyebrows, he tossed it forward.
Michael reached out and plucked it from the air before Benny could react.
“Look at that,” his uncle said. “Reflexes like a cat.”
It was a heavy, folded thing with two flaps of leather that buttoned together on the inside. Michael popped it open, studying the prize inside: a gold-and-silver FSD badge, two swords with silver blades and golden hilts, the points crossed over an elaborate shield; the ultimate status symbol in the People’s Republic. It meant the bearer was an official of the Party. Untouchable. It also meant they were high up in the Fatherland Security Department, which was enough to strike fear in the hearts of most people.
“It’s nice,” Michael said, handing it to Benny. “Heavy.”
“Wow, Uncle Sal.” Benny gaped at it like a boy holding a shiny pistol. “This is great.”
“Well, you can’t have it,” Uncle Sal said before bursting into laughter. His men saw how vigorously he was laughing and emitted their own half-hearted chuckles.
Michael’s eyes drifted over the contents of the kitchen. How much longer would this take? A small mountain of dishes had piled up by the sink, and he could hear the heavy clanks of the waitress setting down more. There were definitely Party members eating for free in the dining room today. His uncle was celebrating with his friends, and he had chosen his brother’s restaurant for dinner.
Uncle Sal pulled a flask out of his jacket and unscrewed the cap. “It is something, though,” he said, grinning at Benny. “Maybe someday you’ll have one of your own.”
Then he raised an eyebrow at Michael. “Your brother, on the other hand… Working as a dishwasher, no car, no girlfriend, no schooling. What is it with you, Mikey? Always getting the shit end of the stick.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Mich
ael said, turning to face the sink.
“Don’t ‘yeah, yeah’ your uncle. Geez, you know? You’re always brooding.” Uncle Sal motioned at Terry before taking another gulp from his flask. “What is it with this kid?” Then he turned back to Michael. “You got to get over yourself. There are more important things in this world than you, kid. Sorry to break it to ya.”
“Like the regime?” Michael glared at his uncle.
The man’s face tightened a little. “I don’t like your tone, but if you gotta ask, the answer is yes. The People’s Republic and its devoted leaders are worth a hell of a lot more than a little dishwashing piece of shit like you.”
“Hey, now, Sal,” his father cut in. “How ‘bout I fix you up a nice—”
“Shut your mouth, Terry. What are you, my wife? You’re going to fix me up a nice plate of what, apple pie?” He shot his brother a sour look, then took another pull from the flask. “Ought to beat some manners into this boy or he’ll end up in the Tank someday.”
Something fluttered inside Michael’s chest. The Tank, officially known as the Dissenter Rehabilitation Center, was still in its experimental stages. According to rumor, the Tank employed telepaths who were trained to break open and rewire people’s minds to make them follow the One President without question. People who went to the Tank never came back the same. They always seemed broken, empty, like cracked shells of their former selves. Michael had seen them come into the restaurant. Once-regular customers who’d gone missing for months, suddenly reappearing—pale, gaunt, with permanently vacant eyes—to scare the hell out of everyone else.
“See? That got to him.” Sal clamped his free hand on Michael’s shoulder, lifting the flask in the other. “You want to go to the Tank, boy? One word from me, and your whole life changes.” Lifting his hand, he snapped his fingers. “Like that.”
Noticing the desperate, pleading expression on his father’s face, Michael bit back an angry retort. Instead, he dropped his eyes to his uncle’s shiny black shoes in defeat.
“I was out of line,” he said. “It won’t happen again.”
“Won’t happen again, what?”
Michael met his uncle’s narrowed eyes. For a moment, he considered telling Uncle Sal to get lost. After all, they were family. He wouldn’t really throw Michael into the Tank, would he?
Something strange happened instead.
A pale spot appeared in the center of his uncle’s forehead, almost the same color as his skin but slightly transparent—like a foggy spot on a pane of glass. Behind that misty smear was what appeared to be a vertical, shivering thread, dancing for Michael and no one else. Sal’s men peered at him like they knew something strange was going on.
“I don’t like the way you’re staring at me, boy,” his uncle said.
Snapping out of it, Michael took a deep breath.
“It won’t happen again, sir,” he said loudly enough to fill the restaurant.
He even saluted.
Chapter 6
Uncle Sal and his men returned while Michael was finishing cleaning up the dining room.
A light rain fell outside. It was past ten o’clock, and the restaurant had already closed for the night. When Michael saw his uncle’s black car slide into the parking lot, he told his mother to keep his overtime money and ran for the stairs leading up to his bedroom.
She caught up to him and spun him around, eyes wide with fright.
“Don’t leave me with him. Please. He’s coming back for drinks. You know what happens when he drinks, don’t you, Michael? Please?”
Michael’s stomach tightened. The last time Uncle Sal had come to the restaurant for drinks, he got rip-roaring drunk, grabbed a waitress’s breasts, and called Michael’s mother a clumsy whore after she spilled a glass of water on his table. Then he challenged Michael’s dad to an arm-wrestling competition and ended up flipping over a table after accusing the tired, older man of trying to end the competition early by letting Sal win.
“Okay,” Michael said, “but just for another hour. Then we kick him out.”
“You know we can’t do that.”
Uncle Sal’s fist banged against the front door. His mother crept up to it, meekly calling, “Who is it?”
“It’s me, Sally. Come on, open up.”
She held the door against her like a shield as Uncle Sal stumbled in, clearly drunk, followed by Boyd and Welcher, who appeared relatively sober, though a bit foggy eyed.
“There we go,” Uncle Sal said, shaking raindrops off the lapels of his coat and drinking in the sight of the empty, freshly cleaned restaurant. Michael could still smell the hot breath of the vacuum cleaner, which he had stuffed into the closet only moments earlier.
Terry Lanza emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a rag.
“Sal?”
“Why, Terry, it’s your baby brother. Aren’t you glad to see me?”
There was only a moment’s hesitation before Terry’s face broke into a grin and he embraced his younger brother, slapping him vigorously on his back.
“Jesus, okay. Okay,” Sal said. “Don’t start cryin’ on me. I was just here, you clown. Go grab the gin before I start breaking plates.”
Terry motioned for Benny to go grab a bottle from the basement and made his way into the kitchen, probably to avoid further interaction with his brother.
Jolene emerged from the bathroom, dressed to go out on the town, all done up with plastic heels, black tights, and heavy eye shadow. When she saw Sal, her painted face tightened with regret. Michael imagined what was going through her mind: If only I’d gone out the back door…
Uncle Sal fixed his gaze on Jolene. “I didn’t realize you had such pretty girls working the place. Right, Mikey? I’m sure even a dish-washin’ patsy like you gets distracted by this little honey bunny struttin’ around all day, with those cheap heels and that sass in her eyes.”
Michael kept silent, though a chill went down his back. If it came down to violence, he didn’t think he had the courage to defend Jolene. All he wanted right now was to be up in his bedroom, his face buried in an engineering textbook. He should have cleaned up faster.
“You put that apron back on, sweetheart,” Uncle Sal said, edging closer to Jolene. He craned his neck over hers, nostrils flaring as he took a big whiff of her perfume. “We’re huuungry.”
Jolene swallowed her anger, turned, and headed into the bathroom. Michael let out a quiet sigh of relief. He had expected Jolene to rattle off some catty response like she usually did. Thankfully, she had kept her mouth shut.
The three men made themselves comfortable at one of the large center tables, which Sal demanded Terry load up with hot food. Michael’s mother was ordered to bring out a constant stream of beer and wine. She kept wincing in disgust as the men took liberties with Jolene, smacking her rump and making remarks that even Michael—a teenager—found immature and crass.
This continued for the next two hours, and the anger burning inside Michael was enough to make him sweat. He wanted to rescue Jolene from it somehow, yet he’d never felt more helpless in his life.
Uncle Sal caught Michael glaring at him from the back of the dining room, where he’d been instructed to stand until he was needed. With his mouth full of pasta, Sal reached toward Michael’s mother, watching his nephew the entire time, and cupped a hand around her sizeable right breast. He smirked at Michael as he squeezed it.
When they were gone, Michael spent ten minutes standing in the refrigerator, but even that wasn’t enough to cool him off. He remembered the voices in the freezer. Later, he would try to figure that out. Now, all he could do was burn with rage at his uncle.
When he came back up, his father was studying the bill.
“What’s the damage?” Michael said.
“A little over six hundred,” his father said with a heavy sigh. “Thousand.”
It was as much as the restaurant made in two weeks if they were lucky.
“Did he leave a tip, at least?”
His
father placed the bill on the counter, propped his hands against the edge, and let his head hang.
“No. He thanked me for throwing him a nice party, though.”
They sank into an uncomfortable silence. The kitchen needed to be cleaned again.
“Call it a night, Dad. I’ll take care of the mess.”
“No.” His face seemed to sag. “I’ll do it myself. Go on.”
“Dad…”
“Damn it, Mike. Just go.”
A week later, Michael was on his way to the Capitalist Pig to meet Benny when he heard his parents talking in the living room. He held back, perched on the stairs in his dark jeans and black sweatshirt, listening.
His parents spoke in hushed tones. There was someone with them. A man.
“I’m the one protecting this family. I’m the one keeping the Feds out of your business. You don’t think I know you’re holding back on your taxes? You don’t think they know? Come on, Terry. You’re smarter than that. They could take the place away from you…” The man snapped his fingers. “Like that.”
It was Uncle Sal. Michael held his breath as every muscle in his body tensed.
“My God, Sally,” his father said. “This is all I got.”
His mother made a shushing sound.
“It’ll be all right,” she said. “I can handle it.”
A fist crashed into the table with a loud bang.
“Don’t tell me you want this, Lydia. Don’t you dare.”
“Hey, hey,” Uncle Sal said. “She’s no whore, Terry. But she’s willing to make the sacrifice. For her family. For this place. Come on, you’re my brother. You understand the guys at work expect this sort of thing. Protection comes at a price. Unless you can afford—”
“You know I can’t.”
“Okay, so look at it from my perspective. If I help you out for nothing in return, what are the guys at the department going to think of me?”
“But I’m your brother. Benny and Mike are your nephews. Isn’t that enough?”
“Not to those guys. You know how it is, Terry. I’ve told you this before. If you don’t make a sacrifice, it’ll look bad. I’m only talking once, twice a week.”
Bloodcrier: The Complete Two-Book Series Page 5