Santos’s punch flew past Mac’s face, just as another left hook was attempted. This one too flew over Mac’s head as he ducked under the arms of his opponent only to re-emerge back up directly in front of Santos with no space between their bodies. The move, as Mac had predicted in his mind, startled Santos just enough to allow Mac to snap his neck back and then forward again, causing the top of his forehead to pound into the bridge of Santos’s nose with a satisfying crunch.
His nose broken, and blood already flowing over his mouth and chin, Santos again fell back, though this time falling to his left knee as he attempted to wipe the blood from the front of his face with a forearm.
For the second time, Mac Walker looked to the godfather for the fight to end, his chest heaving with the exertion, but satisfied in how easily he had defeated a far younger and more powerful man. It was, minus the cancer and his impending death, just like old times.
The godfather nodded to Mac and waved Marcini over to assist Santos, who was holding his head back and holding his nose in an attempt to stop the bleeding.
“How about a big round of applause for our combatants! Let them know how well they did. Especially YOU, Mr. Walker – especially you!”
The nightclub erupted in applause for Mac, as several people offered to buy him his drinks for the remainder of the evening. Mac ignored their attention though, turning instead to the godfather.
“So we have a deal? We get use of that train?”
The godfather smiled down at Mac from the stage and extended his left hand toward a long table to his left.
“Please, Mr. Walker, let us enjoy the evening. Some food, some drink, and yes, perhaps a little business. I am very impressed with you, Mac. Very, very impressed! You give hope for an old man like me you know. Perhaps there’s life yet left in this world for ghosts such as ourselves. Bring your friends to my table and let’s try and enjoy our company this evening. You’ve proven yourself worthy of my attention – and for that I am truly grateful, Mr. Walker. Truly grateful! We haven’t had this much entertainment around here in quite some time!”
Mac was quickly becoming convinced the godfather had lost his mind. A madman trapped in an odd world of nostalgia where he had taken on the persona of a mafia boss from some long ago movie. The streets, the cars, the fake grass and trees…it all pointed to some form of willful communal dementia by everyone living in Wilfrid – Imran included. In Dominatus they lived in a real world, left alone to do as they pleased. Here, in Wilfrid, it all felt so contrived, odd, and given the people inside the nightclub’s clear lust for violence, likely very dangerous.
They needed the use of that train, though, and so, Mac nodded to the others in his group and pointed over to the godfather’s table.
An hour and several drinks later, Mac, Reese, and the others found themselves more relaxed as the godfather, also having consumed several more glasses of wine, began to speak to them not as some small time mob dictator, but rather an older man wanting to share stories with others willing to listen.
“I hope the terms of our wager, and Mac’s involvement, didn’t offend any of you. Remember, it wasn’t my idea – it was Cooper’s plan! So Cooper is the one to blame.”
Cooper tipped his hat to the godfather and then looked over at Mac.
“Clearly our best was a lot better than yours, sir. Which by the way, is there something I can call you besides “godfather”? That just sounds, all due respect…damn stupid.”
Bear nodded enthusiastically in response to Cooper’s words.
“Hell, yeah! Damn stupid is putting it mildly.”
The godfather took another sip of wine while peeking over his glass at Bear. Returning the glass to the table, he then took his glasses off and began to clean the thick lenses with one of the white napkins that were placed around the table.
“Yes Bear, there was a time I had what you would consider, a regular name. It’s the name of this place – Wilfrid. My family name. But you know, we don’t live in regular times anymore, now do we? So now, I’m simply the godfather, and I stopped trying to be something else, a long time ago. We all play a part, Bear…you, me, Mac, all of us. Whether you like it or not, people put you in those shoes and make you walk that walk. So, I just keep walking, and in that regard, I ain’t no different than you.”
Bear shook his head and chuckled.
“What a bowl of bullshit! I don’t play a part I don’t want to. As for my shoes, they fit me just fine.”
Surprisingly, it was Mac who came to the godfather’s defense.
“Maybe it’s the years, the sense a person gets when they know they have a lot fewer days in front of them than before. I get what he’s saying, Bear. The feeling of being trapped by your past, and not enough days left to change your future. I get it.”
The godfather raised his glass to Mac, and took another drink of the dark red wine.
“I was told you were from Louisiana, Mac. Is that right?”
Mac nodded slowly, his eyes staring down at the table.
“You miss it? Where you come from? Your people?”
Mac left the godfather’s question unanswered for a moment, as his eyes closed and his chin fell down toward his chest.
“Yeah, I suppose I do. Hadn’t thought about it much until recently, but yeah, I miss it.”
The godfather persisted, his voice hinting at both kindness and understanding for Mac’s yearning to return to the place of his birth.
“If you don’t mind my asking, Mac, where do you see yourself dying, when it’s all over? Was it Dominatus? You were up there for what – twenty years? Me…I always wanted to be back in Steubenville. That’s a big reason why this place looks like it does you know. The cars and all that. It’s me trying to get back to where I came from. Actually, to where my dad grew up. He was always telling me when I was a kid in the 70’s how it was all going to hell. He’d say those damn words all the time, man. Over and over again how the country, the neighborhood, the whole damn world was going to hell, and how better things were back when he was younger in the 1950’s. How America was still America. He went on and on about it. Sure glad him and my mom didn’t live long enough to see just how bad it really got. So I created Wilfrid. You might think I’m crazy for doing it, you might think I’ve lost my mind, but I say it’s what’s keeping me together. I’ve created something that doesn’t exist anymore outside of here in this messed up world. So call me crazy – I don’t give a shit.
“But what about you Mac? Where did you plan to be in the end? Back home in Louisiana?”
Mac leaned back in his chair and looked over at an older woman making her way to the stage to sing one of the Karaoke songs. He recalled Imran saying something about how much the godfather enjoyed Karaoke.
“Yeah, actually, as little sense as it made, I always felt I’d end up back there someday. Somehow. Looks like that won’t happen though. So…whatever.”
Dublin reached over and squeezed Mac’s forearm.
“I never knew that, Mac. You felt like you would go back to Louisiana someday?”
Mac shrugged, his eyes looking into his half full drink glass containing a brand of whiskey the godfather had recommended to him earlier.
“Sure. I don’t know…maybe it was more a feeling of wanting to see it one last time. You know, before I got too old. I do miss it though. The warm weather. The smell of the trees, the food and the music. It wasn’t the perfect place. We had our problems just like anywhere else, but it was my place. My home. My people, and yeah…a part of me always felt like I’d go back.”
The woman who had walked to the stage moments earlier was singing a song she had introduced as “Freight Train” by an artist named Elizabeth Cotton. The crowd grew quiet as her soft voice strained to carry the lyrics out across to those seated at the nightclub tables.
Freight train, Freight train, run so fast
Please don't tell what train I'm on
They won't know what route I've gone
When I am dead and
in my grave
No more good times here I crave
Place the stones at my head and feet
Tell them all that I've gone to sleep.
When I die, Lord, bury me deep
Way down on old Chestnut street
Then I can hear old Number 9
As she comes rolling by.
When the woman finished, the godfather stood up and clapped, bowed toward her and began clapping again. Soon, most everyone else in the club followed the godfather’s example and began clapping as well.
“That’s Nancy Briggs. Sweet thing from Long Island New York. About the shyest little lady you’ll ever meet, but the voice of an angel. Took me months to get her to sing in front of anyone, but now we can’t keep her off the stage. Lovely woman.”
Imran tapped the top of the table to get Mac’s attention.
“Mac said he might sing for us tonight. He plays guitar.”
The godfather smiled down at Mac as he snapped a finger.
“That’s right! Imran mentioned that to me the other day. So tell me, Mac, will you do us the honor of singing something for tonight? Whatever you want – singer’s choice. Maybe it’ll be the deciding factor in me helping you out with convincing the Russian to take you to Manitoba. How about it Mac – see if you sing and play as well as you fight? Maybe a little Dean Martin?”
Mac looked to the stage and then back to the godfather.
“I don’t sing Dean Martin. No offense – not my style.”
The godfather smiled again as he leaned down to tap Mac’s shoulder.
“That’s ok! Whatever you want, Mac. Like I said – singer’s choice.”
Reese urged Mac to sing, and was soon joined by Dublin and Bear. Even Cooper Wyse added to the request as he tilted his head toward the stage.
“C’mon, Mac. Let’s see what you got.”
Mac shook his head no.
“Don’t have a guitar. Can’t sing without a guitar. Sorry.”
The godfather motioned for Marcini to come to the table.
“Marcini, go get Mac the guitar from upstairs.”
Mac began to feel as if he had walked into another trap.
“Yeah…I mean NO. I play acoustic yes, but I don’t know about singing for everyone. That was something I did for the people back in Dominatus. Now…”
Mac’s voice trailed off as the godfather sat down again, his right arm reaching out to grab Mac’s wrist.
“Mr. Walker, I appreciate your uncertainty. I know this place has to seem odd to you. I know I seem odd to you, but at the end of the day, we’re just people like you had in Dominatus. Trying to survive and prosper as much as we can while the world around us chokes on its own brutality. How about another little side wager between us? You get your old ass up there and sing a song, and I guarantee you I do my best to ensure you get use of the train.”
Imran’s eyes locked with Mac’s, urging him to agree to the terms.
Mac looked to the others and found they too were expecting him to accept.
“Oh, hell, fine then. Get me a guitar and I’ll sing for my supper and that goddamn train ride.”
Marcini returned carrying the guitar the godfather had him retrieve. Upon seeing it, Mac’s eyes widened as he took the instrument form Marcini’s hands and gently set it on his lap.
“Is this real? A Gibson L-2? They stopped making these over a hundred years ago!”
Mac’s hand brushed the guitar strings.
“It’s real. One of the few things I have left from my family. Was my grandfather’s. He brought it to America in 1935 when they fled Italy before the war. Mr. Walker, I would be honored to have you play it for me. I, unfortunately…I never learned.”
Mac turned the guitar over in his hands, then began to lightly strum the strings and adjust the tuning before abruptly pausing.
“Is it ok if I tune it? She needs just a little love.”
The godfather took another sip of his wine while managing to simultaneously nod his head.
“Of course, as long as I get to hear you play it.”
Mac became momentarily lost in the tuning of the guitar. It was the finest acoustic he had ever touched, let alone had the opportunity to play. The aged wood had a dull, light colored sheen to it, and it smelled of a world and a way of life too long forgotten in this modern era of global governance. Mac regretted his earlier judgment against the godfather’s character. The man wasn’t insane, simply nostalgic – a yearning for a better and simpler time Mac understood all too well himself. A time when those you once loved were again alive, and well, and still part of your own life.
Mac rose from his seat with the guitar clutched in his right hand as he made the short walk to the stage area. Even before he put his feet atop the raised platform, the audience inside the nightclub was cheering for him.
Turning to face the microphone, Mac felt a twinge of pain shoot down to his lower back, causing him to wince.
“If it’s ok with all of you, I’d like to sit down here while I play. That little demonstration we had for you earlier has me all tuckered out.”
Again the people of Wilfrid cheered and clapped for Mac as Marcini placed a stool next to him.
Mac eased himself down onto the stool while resting the guitar on the top of his thighs.
“You know, just a little over an hour ago, I was thinking to myself how insane this place was. How stupid and silly all the old cars and everything…well…you know how you got this town set up. I’m starting to get it now, though. I really am. When I was younger, I wasn’t much for talking. Sure as hell not for talking in front of a bunch of people like you. I’m old enough now though…plenty old enough, that I know I’m running out of time to say the things I want to say. I kinda wish I had taken that time to say those things to people who deserved to hear it before it was too late.”
Mac paused as he gathered his thoughts, while all of the faces seated in front of him watched intently for what he would say next.
“You see, you live long enough, you realize just how many people you loved are no longer with you anymore. Maybe back when they were still around, you let all the other things get in the way of letting them know how much they meant to you. Or, you let your fears, or arrogance, or resentment, speak for you because the words just seemed like too much trouble. I don’t know. I really don’t. I’m just an old man now, sitting up here, talking nonsense. Or at least for some of you, it comes off sounding like that. I promise you though, some day, you’ll understand. At least some of it – you really will.
“The one you all call the godfather, sitting right there, he promised to help us get where we need to go if I sing you a little song. Now I ain’t played much since…since Dominatus was blown to hell by the drones a couple years back. We made them pay a price for that though. We fought back. I was told most you already heard about that.”
Mac was interrupted by a smattering of applause that soon grew in volume. There was no love for the New United Nations in this room. He waited for the room to go quiet and then continued.
“Now a long time ago, I was just a kid from a middle class American family in a small, Mississippi River town of Carville, Louisiana. I grew up riding my bike, and trading baseball cards, and getting into just enough trouble to keep things interesting, while trying to keep out of too much trouble so my dad didn’t take the belt to me. Back then I sometimes thought how dull and boring my life was. How annoying and overly strict my parents could be at times. I dreamed of being free of all that. Free of them. Free of that life.
“Now it seems most my dreams are filled with wishing I had that life back…had my parents back. What I wouldn’t do to see my mom and dad just one more time. Tell them thanks. Tell them I loved them. Goddamn do I miss them something terrible.”
Mac paused again as he looked down at this feet while his fingers began to strum the guitar. When he looked back up, he spotted Dublin wiping tears away from her eyes, and felt a momentary pang of guilt for making her cry.
&nb
sp; “I have new family these days though – those of us who walked out of Dominatus alive. I’m doing my best to protect them, at least as much as a tired, used up old man can. So I guess I should sing you a song. Again, I apologize if my playing isn’t so good. Even at its best, it wasn’t much. And I know I can’t sing for shit, but whatever. Here’s a song I remember my dad singing along to in the car on the way to what he called our secret fishing hole just outside Carville. It was just a small nothing pond tucked away among the trees just off a little gravel road where you could hook into a decent sized catfish now and then. If we caught some fish, we’d bring ‘em back to Mom and she’d fry them up for dinner while Dad would keep telling her we were eating for free because I’d brought home the catch of the day. Every time he’d say it, the taste of that fish just got better and better.
Military Fiction: THE MAC WALKER COLLECTION: A special ops military fiction collection... Page 117