Sin and Tonic

by Rhys Ford

It was hard to discover Achara wasn’t much younger than he was now when she died, and she’d given birth to him when she was little more than a child herself. Her friend had included a clipping of her obituary, but it said nothing about a son or any of the family, merely a terse announcement of the violent murder of a woman living in Chinatown. He had a brief tickle to know how she died, but Kane quickly threw a bucket of cold water on that hot idea.

  “It will only piss you off more, Miki,” he said over the phone. “Let’s just say that everyone knew Wong had a hand in it, but no one did anything. Think on it, and if you’re still interested in knowing, when I get home we can talk through that.”

  In the five minutes it took Miki to tell Kane he loved him and his cop assuring him he’d be home before it got too late, Miki’s curiosity was satisfied with every dark thought his imagination could throw at it.

  He no longer wanted to find out how his mother died.

  Brigid was a comfort, one he was grateful for, but there was an itch forming under his skin Miki knew could only be scratched by calling in his band. The Irish matriarch hugged him hard enough to rattle his eyeballs, then left in the clatter of noise and kisses. Damien hadn’t escaped her affection, and Miki didn’t point out the lipstick prints she left on his cheek until Forest and Rafe arrived. A bit of laughter happened, some light shoving, but it eventually led to the studio built next to the garages. Miki was struck senseless by the tight embraces from brothers bound to him through music and friendship.

  Then they played.

  For hours his bandmates held him up, refusing to let him fall and stringing a net of music he could rest on. It felt good to lean against that wall of sound and rasp words he’d written for his own pain into a microphone connected only to a recording studio. And when it felt like they’d played everything he knew, one of the others would find a chord or two to a song he hadn’t touched yet.

  Miki called it quits before any of the others did, his fingertips aching and tender from picking at merciless guitar strings. His throat felt raw, and fatigue settled into his bones, a thick and heavy slumber he didn’t have the energy to fight. Collapsing onto the wraparound couch sitting in the corner of the room, Miki sat panting as Damien and Rafe put down their instruments before joining him. Forest eventually found his way to the couch after sluicing most of the sweat from his body and changing into some of the clothes he’d left behind after their tour.

  “You guys probably need to get home soon.” Miki swallowed at the dryness in his throat. They’d brought the whiskey with them from the warehouse, but nobody seemed inclined to open the liquor bottle. “I know you guys all have lives. Well, except for Damien, because Sionn’s working.”

  “I told Connor I would be here.” Forest gingerly got up from the couch, wincing when he stretched out his legs. “I feel like I’ve run five marathons. Anybody else want water?”

  “Maybe get one for each of us, and you might want to bring the whiskey over. We’re all going to be cramping up after what we just played out,” Damie suggested. His lanky brother stretched his arms over his head, then mirrored Forest’s wince. “I think my fingers are bleeding. Or at least blistered. But it was a good run.”

  “Tightest it’s ever been,” Rafe agreed. “So now what? You’ve got a name—which is kind of close to the one you have now, and a mom—”

  “He already had a mom. We both do. Her name is Brigid.” Forest tossed Rafe a bottle of water from the small fridge next to the door. Their bassist got ahold of it, but it slithered out of his grasp, rolling across the couch to land against Damien’s side. “Guess that one’s going to be D’s. I’ll bring you another one.”

  Miki lay in between Damien and Rafe, his legs stretched out over the short side of the U-shaped couch, tucked behind Rafe’s back. His toes were growing cold from the blasting air conditioner, a necessity when playing a long, hard set, but uncomfortable once they were done. Damien must’ve noticed the ripple of goose bumps over his arms, because the guitarist reached for the remote and turned the temperature up, veering it away from arctic. A second later, Forest returned to where he’d been sitting, and Miki’s toes were warmed by his drummer’s torso leaning against his bare feet.

  “See, I would’ve guessed you were Japanese,” Damien remarked. His fingers were in Miki’s hair, giving an occasional stroke along the back of his head. “I wouldn’t have ever guessed Scottish. Do you want to find out where her parents are?”

  “Do you think they’re still alive?” Lifting his head up, Rafe quirked an eyebrow at Miki. “If they are, you should definitely get ahold of them. They might not know you were born.”

  “I bet your father didn’t know either.” Forest had an odd look on his face, and Miki gently dug his toes into his friend’s ribs to get his attention. Grinning back at Miki, he shrugged. “I don’t know how I would feel about finding out who my dad was, you know? I always knew my mom, which definitely wasn’t giving me a step up, but I don’t know, Sinjun. I guess for me it would feel like I was opening up a can of worms and hoping it’s not snakes.”

  “Oh, I have a feeling it’s going to be snakes.” Miki chuckled. “It’s always snakes.”

  Damien opened Miki’s bottle of water for him, then passed it back. “You knew who your dad was, right, Andrade?”

  “Yeah, but he walked off before I knew him, and then by the time I decided he was dead to me, he really was.” Rafe quirked his lips into a brief grimace. “I guess in the back of my head I always figured dads should be like Donal, so maybe I’m hoping Miki’s dad just didn’t know about him.”

  “But you’re still on house arrest, right?” Forest asked. “I don’t think I could do that.”

  “It’s better having you guys with me, but yeah, I’m about done with it,” Miki confessed. “But I guess no matter what, this has been kind of a good thing to happen.”

  He’d been open with his bandmates about therapy, and thankfully none of them pressed any further than asking if he was okay. The anger inside of him was still there, bubbling away and searing off some of the confidence he’d built up, but he could feel it easing back.

  “Penny—the therapist I am talking to—says—no, suggests—I talk to you guys about how my music makes me feel—our music—and how hard it’s been for me to….” Miki stopped, drowning in the words and thoughts flying at him from the anxiety crippling his mind. Damien’s hand in his hair stilled, but the press of his palm against Miki’s head comforted him. “Fuck, this is hard.”

  “Dude—no, not you, dog,” Rafe told the terrier who’d been asleep next to the couch but lifted his ears as soon as he heard his name. “Sinjun, if you need us to be your group for therapy, we’re here for you, man. God knows, it’s not like any of us here are normal, and some of us could use more than a few hours on the couch too; not that I’m looking at you, Mitchell.”

  “Don’t take this wrong, but I spent more than enough time wearing a straitjacket to feel comfortable about a therapist right now, but Miki seems to like this one, so, there you go.” Damien’s caress turned into a hug that never seemed to end, and Miki let himself be cradled against his brother’s side. “Nothing that’s said in here goes outside, agreed? Not even with our Morgans, or in my case, Murphy.”

  “Never has been,” Forest swore. “Never will be.”

  “I don’t know about you guys, but I sleep with Quinn,” Rafe protested with a laugh. “Pretty sure he can read my mind.”

  “I talked to Quinn about this kind of stuff, so he’ll probably know before you do,” Miki scoffed. “Mostly Penny thinks that if I am more open with you guys about how I feel trapped sometimes, it’ll help me get through some of the harder moments.”

  “Why do you feel trapped?” Forest raked through his blond hair, working out some of the tangles he’d gotten during their set. “Okay, other than being locked inside of the warehouse waiting for the cops to get this crazy guy.”

  “Was it touring?” Rafe posed. “I used to feel like that when I was on the
road, but this last time with you guys, it was a lot easier. It was like the pressure was off and all I had to do was enjoy playing.”

  “I think a lot of it was… and don’t take this wrong, okay?” Miki paused, unsure despite getting nods from his band. “I talked a little bit to Damien about this, but I guess I really didn’t know how much it was affecting me. I love you guys, but it’s still hard not to hear Johnny and Dave behind me when I’m onstage. And I don’t know why it’s okay when we’re in the studio, but as soon as the lights are on and I hear the crowd, I guess… they were with me for so long and I’m not used to you guys. This is coming out really shitty.”

  “No, it’s okay,” Rafe assured him. “It still shocks the hell out of me not to see Jack on the other side of the stage.”

  “You guys were all together for a really long time, even before you hit it big.” Forest rubbed at Miki’s foot, apparently careful to avoid the ticklish spot he knew damn well was there. “You guys were close and it all happened so fast. I’d be pissed off at life for a really long time if I were you.”

  “I was kind of born pissed off at life,” he muttered. “Mostly I was angry at Damien for dying. Which sounds stupid as fuck, but I guess these things don’t always make sense. When your head kind of falls off the edge of the world, the dumbest things make sense to you. So I guess what I needed to say was: I’m sorry if I’ve been an asshole—when I’ve been an asshole—and I’m going to work really hard to be better about talking to you guys instead of just letting it get to me.”

  “It’s going to take time,” Rafe told him. “And take it from me, it’s hard to train yourself out of behaviors, even if you know it would be better for you. Just remember not to kick the shit out of yourself if you fuck up.”

  “And I’m shit at saying I’m sorry,” Damien added, his melodic voice a soft grumble in Miki’s ear. “Never meant to hurt you, Sinjun. I fought like hell to get back to you.”

  Squeezing Damien’s thigh hurt his already injured fingers, but with his back angled against Damien’s side, it was the best he could do. “I know that. It’s why I’m so fucked-up over being angry and sad about it. I don’t understand how I got from being happy to see you to being pissed off you’re with me. But it’s kind of better now—a lot better. This afternoon when I felt so fucking lost even though I know more about myself than I did when I woke up this morning, after I spoke to Kane, all I wanted to do was be with you guys, play with the band, so you could heal me.

  “It’s like today broke me, but it made all of these tiny little lines instead of shattering me apart,” Miki whispered, staring at his hands. It was easier to speak about the craquelure fracturing his identity and breaking off minute pieces of his heart if he wasn’t searching for rejection in his brothers’ faces. “Kane and I were watching this weird show about pottery because—he likes bowls—and one of the guys said there was this thing about how something is more beautiful when it’s repaired. It’s this philosophy of embracing the flawed. In the show, the artist filled the cracks in with gold lacquer so you could still see the vase had been broken, but it became more than it was before. So I was watching the show and Kane said, ‘That’s you. That’s how I see you.’”

  Miki blinked, refusing to let himself cry, but the words were caltrops being dragged up his throat and his emotions were raw, as abused as his fingers from the strings. He risked a glance up, and even through the watery veil across his vision, he saw his bandmates reaching for him right before their touch on his bare skin washed away the sorrow choking him.

  “That’s how all of us see you, Sinjun,” Damie murmured. “You’ve taken a worse tumble than any of us in life, and you might see yourself as broken, but all we see is how beautiful you are, even when you’re being a shit.”

  “Fuck you, D.” Miki let out a short laugh, then wiped his nose. “What I’m trying to tell you is the gold inside of my fractures is the three of you. Kane picked up the pieces and held me together, but you guys went a long way in laying the gold down to heal me. So I guess what I really need to say is thank you for being my brothers, and if I haven’t told you this before, I’m sorry, because it’s crappy of me not to let you know how much I fucking love you guys, and I can’t wait to share a stage with you again.”

  NO MATTER how Kane dissected the information from the report he read, he didn’t like the conclusions he was drawing about the man they were soon to meet. With bits cobbled together from what he’d learned from Miki over the years and the stark reality of a police report buried in dusty archives, Kane knew it was time to talk to Kel about his suspicions. Opening his mouth, Kane found himself cut short by one of Kel’s infamous complaints.

  “Jesus, are we still in the city?” Kel grumbled from the passenger seat. “Where does this guy live? Half Moon Bay?”

  “Fuck, Sanchez. How long have you lived here? That’s the total opposite direction of where I’m driving.” Kane spared his partner a glance as he maneuvered through the marina’s parking lot. “You’ve been to Berkeley. Shit, Quinn teaches right up the way from here.”

  “Look, as far as I’m concerned, it’s all the Wild West once you get past Oakland and the Raiders.” Kel scoffed, rattling the ice in his soft-drink cup. “And the times I was visiting Quinn, I wasn’t thinking about how fucking far out this place is. I was more focused on the scenery.”

  “You, my friend, are a sick, perverted man. Really? College kids?” Kane shook his head. “Aren’t you a little too old for that kind of thing?”

  “What makes you think I was there to visit Quinn’s students?” That really earned Kel a scathing look, and the bastard had the nerve to laugh in Kane’s face. “I like both sides of the field, brother, just like you used to. Before you hooked up with a rock star.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t lust after my baby brother?”

  “Well, it seems kinda safe to admit it now that he’s with Rafe so you’re less likely to rearrange my face. Mostly, I was his friend,” Kel replied with a shrug. “Now, if he hadn’t been your baby brother, I might have had a chance.”

  “As long as Rafe Andrade drew breath, you never had a chance, Kel.” Kane checked the pier markings against what he’d written down back at the station. “There’s the mooring. Let’s see what Sergeant Hall has to say for himself. With any luck, he will have had an attack of conscience and tell us where Wong is hiding.”

  “Do you really think he knows where Wong is?” Kel asked as he climbed out of the sedan. Leaning on the roof, his partner studied the boats bobbing in the Bay. “Internal Affairs couldn’t nail him, remember? And even though they let him pension out, he rode a desk for years after he was pulled from that assignment.”

  Kane shut the car door, but instead of heading for the boats, he turned toward his partner. Now was as good a time as any, especially since they were about to knock on Hall’s front door. “I should probably tell you something that I did a few years back and again a couple of days ago to refresh my memory.”

  “Tell me this isn’t about Vega or Shing and I’ll let you talk,” Kel interrupted.

  “This isn’t about Vega or Shing.”

  “Good, because if you tell me you’d killed them, I would have to then admit that you were drinking on the job and could not be held responsible for what you said.” He nodded at Kane, tapping at the roof of the sedan. “Continue.”

  “I might have opened up Miki’s files from when he was a teenager. Actually, I did a little digging back then when I suspected him of murdering Shing. Do you remember me making that request from records?”

  “Yeah, and if you remember, I told you it seemed kind of lean.” Kel went back to studying the Bay. “His foster records were spotty until Vega got him, but that was kind of par for the course back then. Why did you go back into them? And I’m not even going to ask you to let me look at them again. I know how you Morgans work. Sometimes the less I know, the better.”

  “You make it sound like we’re a mafia family.” Kane chuckled.

/>   “You guys are not far from it. I’m just glad you’re on this side of the badge. What did you find that you’re bringing up now?”

  “I knew I’d seen Hall’s name before. And don’t give me that look,” Kane warned as Kel’s attention flicked back to him. “I know it’s a common last name, but his first name isn’t. How many guys do you know are named Pattrias?”

  “Weird, but what does that have to do with anything?” Kel turned to face him. A nearby gull squawked defiantly, guarding a spill of French fries near a dumpster, but Kel ignored the bird’s warning cries. “Does he have to do with Miki?”

  “Do you remember me telling you the story about how Miki found out what his name was?”

  “Yeah, something about a cop reading his name from that tattoo on his arm, which we now know was bullshit.” Kel’s eyes narrowed. “Wasn’t Hall stationed in Japan when he was a Marine? Was he the guy who translated the tattoo?”

  “He was not only the guy who translated it,” Kane replied, “he was the one who found Miki. I don’t think there was any other cop. Everything Miki knows about what happened that day was told to him, so there was a telephone game of information, but the police report Hall filed says the little boy knew his name was something that sounded like Mieko. There’s a drawing of the tattoo with the word Mieko underneath it. At that time, I wasn’t involved with Miki, so I really wasn’t paying a lot of attention. But now it’s different.”

  “Micah. Mieko.” Kel ran the sounds through a couple of times. “He was what? Two-ish? Three? You and I know kids that young have a hard time speaking sometimes. Hell, most of the time it just sounds like a babble of noise. Are you thinking that Hall didn’t just find Miki? You thinking he had a hand in killing Miki’s mother but didn’t want to kill a kid?”

  “I’m thinking it’s more than a possibility. And I hate to say that about a fellow cop, but considering IA already had him in their crosshairs, there had to be something going on. I’ve got a retired military guy with some knowledge of Japanese who puts down on a report that a badly scribbled tattoo matches the name a two-year-old responds with when asked. Nobody questioned Hall about it, and by the time Miki was old enough to look up the kanji, it didn’t matter anymore. Not to him anyway,” Kane said. “I should’ve told you sooner, but I wasn’t sure until right before we left the station.”