by Brian Selfon
“Big day for the family tomorrow,” he says, tapping a spoon against his bottle. Getting the kids to look up at him. “Bag of crisps, bag of dirties. How about a round of Guess the Client? What belongs to who? And the prize will be—”
“Dirties are from Red Dog,” Henry interrupts, “crisps are from the Paradise Club.” He doesn’t give Shecky a chance to confirm he’s right—which, of course, he is. “And speaking of Red Dog…” Henry looks up with a hesitant smile. “A friend of mine had this idea.”
Shecky’s body tenses. Ideas from Henry’s friends are rarely good, and there’s a certain friend—a girl, a lunatic—whom Shecky would be glad to see out of the family picture.
“We were talking about how maybe with Red Dog,” Henry says, licking his lips as if readying his mouth for what he’ll say next. “Since I brought in the business…” He coughs, obviously uncomfortable with what he’s saying. As he fucking well should be. Henry forces a smile as he at last gets it out: “Maybe I should get a cut.”
Shecky’s breath is like a snort. “You were talking to a friend about our work?”
“Nothing specific,” Henry says quickly. “Just basic business principles. Like if I’m doing regular work, I get regular pay. I’m staff. But if I’m bringing in clients—especially a big one like Red Dog—doesn’t that…”
Kerasha completes the trail-off: “Make him a partner.”
It’s like a wineglass has been dropped: no one moves, the air itself cries danger. Then there’s a beep from the kitchen, the timer for the vegetables. “You’re getting ahead of yourself,” Shecky says to Henry, standing up. His voice is flat, cool, and much stronger than what he’s feeling inside. He walks calmly to the kitchen. There, only there, does he allow himself to lean against the counter and feel the full weight of the challenge.
Henry, a partner. Not looking up to Shecky, but standing beside him. Not a child anymore. Not his boy.
How will I protect him?
Eyes dry, hands steady, Shecky returns to the dining room carrying three large serving plates. “And here you go, plenty for everyone.” He dishes out the sausage, the veggies, the pasta. He sits, finally. The kids’ eyes are on him, waiting for his grace. “Thank you for being here,” he says at last. “Thank you for being my family.”
The kids say their thank-yous and get to eating.
The silence that begins the meal is awful. They’re waiting for an answer.
Shecky keeps his face neutral. Takes a moment to collect himself. A cut for Henry—a personal cut, separate from the family’s—what would that mean, and what could that lead to? Henry moving up? Or out? Those empty, quiet nights; those empty, quiet years—Shecky pushes them back and puts on another smile. “Hey. We’re all in this house together.” The smile feels like it’s fighting with his face. “What’s ours is all of ours.”
“No disrespect,” Henry says. “I’m just saying, my role has already changed. So maybe we can acknowledge that.” He turns to Kerasha. “You’re objective, you’ve got no stake in this. What do you think?”
Kerasha almost laughs. “Ref this fight?” A slow head shake. “First thing you learn in the cage—never take a side till you know who’s got the shiv.”
Shecky is done with his smile now. Done with this whole fucking conversation. “This isn’t rule by committee. There’s a right way to do this, and it’s not everyone for themselves.” He’s certain this is true. Certain the kids can understand this. Okay, Henry is immature. He has that red streak, and worse, he has artistic aspirations. The opposite of good business sense. But at the end of the day, Henry is responsible. More than that—let’s face it—he’s irreplaceable. His quick temper, the power in his arms and fists, his willingness to start fights—it’s good for the family business. Competitors back down. Late payments come in. And while violence is never Shecky’s first choice, it is, nonetheless, always on the table.
“Income is family money,” Shecky says. “If you want, we’ll go over the numbers, and—”
“Okay, let’s do that.”
“After the two heavies. After we’ve gotten confirmations that the money went through. Next will be—what, the tenth? That’ll make it three full months we’ve been doing business with Red Dog. A full quarter year. And you’re right—he is a major client. It’s something to celebrate.” Shecky goes into the kitchen and comes back with whiskey and three shot glasses. He pours and distributes. “Tomorrow we’ll do another clean job for the client. And by the end of the week we’ll have a better sense of how much business he means for us.” He raises his glass. “Sláinte.”
Shecky feels Henry’s eyes on him a long time. Then the kid nods and downs his shot, and air comes back into the room. Henry’s backed down, remembered his place. Punk. Love him to death.
“Both transfers need to happen tomorrow,” Shecky says, after the kids have had a quiet minute with their food. To Kerasha he adds, “Not ideal, but it happens.” He asks Henry, “Do you have runners?”
“A runner,” Henry says. “My Thursday guy.”
Shecky lowers his fork. “What happened to your other guys?”
“Well, I used to have Thursday and backup. Then backup was playing games, getting sloppy, a little skimmy, and I had to throw him against a wall.” He extends and pulls in his fingers. “His face did something to my hand.”
Shecky shrugs. “As long as you can do your job. That’s what matters.”
“But that’s not all that matters. Not to me.”
And there he goes, looking at his sketch pad again. He’s lucky I’m a softy, Shecky thinks. Lucky I love him. Because Jesus fuck, the job isn’t just money, it’s us! These chairs, this table. Your bed, where you bring that girl. Our home, your fucking art supplies. Love has a price tag. Survival has a price tag. How can you live on it, and not understand where it comes from?
Not now, Dannie whispers to him. Mind your timing.
Gone for decades, she’s still his life’s stage manager. Had been an actual stage manager, working for community theater when she died. He sat in at rehearsals, heard her say, “Keep quiet. You’ll have your lines, but you have to let the other guy talk.”
Shecky gives Henry a moment to feel he’s been heard. Then he says, “This isn’t about your art. This is about your Thursday guy. He can’t do both. We can’t put two bags on one guy. We’d risk—”
“I’m sorry, Uncle Shecky,” Henry says, “but you’ve got to let me handle this.” When Henry draws himself up straight, his chest seems to grow. His hand grips the pencil, shaking with emotion, and Shecky’s eyes fix on that point. “I’ve been managing the runners since winter,” Henry says. “It’s my job, I know how to do it.”
The focus of the world is that pencil point—all else, a blur.
Timing, Dannie says again. Wait for your moment. Concede, retreat. The kid is too unsettled, and you’re too pissy, to have this conversation tonight.
“Let Thursday handle the crisps,” Shecky says. “We can trust Thursday.” Crisps are always tempting, the bills so new and clean. One of Henry’s first jobs—years ago now, different protocols—was helping Shecky count money for the Paradise Club. Henry would undoubtedly still recognize the white-and-blue currency bands this client uses, and the neat stacks in their leather briefcases. Beautiful—Shecky remembers how taken aback Henry was—how he actually raised a hand, as if to shield his eyes, the first time Shecky opened a Paradise Club briefcase for him. It’s like a box of light.
“So we’re good with the crisps,” Shecky says now. “But the dirties need other hands.”
Henry scowls, obviously biting his tongue. A moment later, though, he’s talking sense—pencil down, thank Jesus—and going through the options. Or lack of. One veteran runner is out of town, another got herself shot in a club, another is—
“So use a pup,” Shecky says. But then, seeing the happy surprise on Henry’s face, he quickly adds, “Not your buddy, though. Not him.”
Henry’s smile turns into an angry line.
“Why not?”
Because you like him too much.
“Sorry,” Shecky says, cutting his sausage with more exasperation than appetite. Henry’s frustration is coming at him like a chemical cloud. Shecky remembers hearing about this friend, remembers how Henry’s been itching to promote him. And why not? Henry trained this guy months ago, and according to the ledger Shecky keeps in his upstairs office, this pup hasn’t lost or pinched a penny. There’s nothing unusual in this, Henry’s an effective handler. What’s unusual is that Henry once asked whether the pup could come over for dinner.
“His name’s Emil,” Henry had said. “He’s different.”
Henry doesn’t have company over often. Never had many friends—and no, that girl doesn’t count as a friend. It’s the old orphan’s curse, how lonely need can scare people off. And so when Henry asked if Emil could come over, Shecky had wanted to say, Of course! How about tonight?
But the rules.
“The rules mean safety,” Shecky had said, “and not just for us.” The clients depended on it. So did the runners. “Think about his safety. Your buddy’s.” There were lines you couldn’t cross with the guy who carried your bag. “You’ll do him no favors,” Shecky said, “if you bring him in too close.”
Henry was disappointed then, but tonight, Shecky can tell, this disappointment is hardening into something else. “I’m trying to tell you something,” Henry says. “This friend is important to me. He’s more than just a buddy. He’s teaching me, and—and—you’re not even letting me talk!”
Henry’s chair scrapes across the floor. He stands and takes up the sketch pad, and at his full height Henry towers over Shecky. Looks down at him. And then he turns, and in four long strides, he’s at the basement door. Here he pauses. Looks back.
“If my lives can’t fit together here,” Henry says, “I can’t promise I’ll choose this one.”
* * *
The slam of the basement door. A long echo. The earth has buckled and now it’s still, but there’s no telling, Shecky knows, whether a bigger quake is yet to come.
Absently rubbing his hands, his chin, Shecky is warmed by the sight of Kerasha, who’s waving a forkful of sausage at him. “His loss,” she says. “They don’t serve this at Franklin.”
Affection, gratitude—Shecky takes it in like oxygen. Thank Jesus for this girl, he thinks, picking up his napkin. Wiping his eyes. It’s silly, breaking up inside like this—an old underworlder like him, who’s seen and heard some bad things. Done some pretty fucking bad things himself, but vulnerability is the price of family. Good riddance, lonely years, but not a day now without a bruise.
It’s not the first time Henry’s stormed off like this. It kills Shecky every time, though—slays him, as Henry said in his more annoying days. The family dinner has always been the supreme house rule. Family of two, now family of three, the rule is the same: together at the table. Guinness for him, whatever for the kids. A fresh loaf from Regina Bakery, the catch of the day from Katti’s Fish Market. Or maybe some slab of red, chopped and stewed, or braised and roasted, or maybe just seared under the foot-level blue flame. Roasted veggies and baked potatoes, or yucca and seared sprouts, each meal laid out on the clean-enough tablecloth. The curtains are open as long as there’s some orange left in the dusk. And there’s no TV, no “background music”—Shecky remembers how Dannie had abhorred noise for the sake of noise. “We need silence,” she’d say. “It draws us out.”
And you were right, Dannie, look at us. Listen: The only sound here is family. Our days, our stories. The putting aside of grievances, the rebraiding of the threads. The sharing of bread. These things matter.
Taking Henry’s plate to the kitchen, covering it with foil, and putting it in the refrigerator, Shecky wishes Dannie were here, even as a ghost. Wishes she could see him with the kids, watch the family dinners (not this one, obviously), and know how carefully he’d listened to her.
She was a high school actor, then a waitress and a community theater stage manager, and then she was dead, killed on his birthday. That was her whole story, a fucking one act.
But is it really over? All the way over? Isn’t this her next act—me with the kids? The way she taught me, looked out for me, loved me when no one else did—aren’t I doing the same for them, and isn’t she alive in this house, as long as they’re here?
Shecky closes the refrigerator, makes espressos, and returns with them to the dining room. Two go on the table, the third he brings to Kerasha. She’s back on the old armchair, at peace with Sophocles. Henry’s seat is empty. Shecky looks to the basement door. He thinks about Henry storming off and remembers how another house had shaken when Dannie walked out of it for the last time. That friend of Uncle Joseph’s having come around one too many times, trying to mess with her. And Dannie finally saying to hell with it and going off to live with her boyfriend. Leaving Shecky alone with their uncle.
And this reverberating silence goes on until Kerasha, her eyes still on Sophocles, breaks it—and her uncle—with two soft words.
“It’s back.”
So this is her update. It’s back—said simply, as if it didn’t matter. But Kerasha must have seen him fidgeting around the room, leaving and coming back. Sneaking looks at her, opening his mouth as if to ask but then closing it again with a quick glance at Henry’s empty seat. He mustn’t know, not until Shecky is ready for him to know.
But the family is in the hands of the devil.
Shecky moves food around his plate. Sausage on fork, sausage off. Pointless. Can’t eat. At last, he forces himself to say, “Tell me everything.”
“Last time I saw the Chevy,” she says, “it was parked on our side of the street. This time he was opposite. Farther away, but at a better angle. No tree in the way.”
“At a better angle to see us,” Shecky says. Part of speaking to Kerasha is filling in the gaps. “It’s a guy?”
She’s not quite smiling, but there’s pride coming off her. “I got a good look.”
“Did he look like a cop?”
An eyebrow raise, noncommittal. “Do you want me to bring you his badge?”
“Seriously. Do you think he’s a cop?”
A shrug. “Doesn’t have to be. Though he’s definitely too old to be a straight-up hood.” She sips her espresso. “Gray polo shirt, couldn’t see his pants. Saw his arms, though—definitely works out. I think he’s short. Hard to tell, but something about the way he was sitting.” Another sip. “Should I be worried?”
“Yes,” Shecky says, getting up. Bringing dishes into the kitchen. He clears the food scraps into the compost bin. Loads the dishes into the sink and turns on the hot tap. Waits for the water to steam, squirts bio-based dish soap into the basin.
Shecky rinses out the beer bottles, pours himself another whiskey. Fuck.
She first told him about the blue Impala a couple of weeks ago. It faces this way or that, she said. Sometimes there’s no one inside, and sometimes there’s this guy. Sometimes in a Nets hat. Different spots, different hours, but always, always in sight of the house. Is he police?
But we’ve been so careful, Shecky tells Dannie. We have our system, our fallbacks, our double-blinds.
Could he be a hitman? But who would bother? We’re just us, a nobody fixer and his kids.
Could he be—
Every answer seems wrong, because this presence is wrong. Shecky has denied this man, has obsessed over him, has retched up into the toilet at three in the morning because of him. But still this shadow haunts his home.
“Home,” Shecky says, more to himself than to his niece—but she is listening, her eyes and ears always open. “Means nothing if you can’t keep it safe.”
chapter 4
Henry thunders down the stairs, playing the dinner back in his head. “My family,” Uncle Shecky had said, “my home”—Henry has heard it all before, but tonight it sounds different. What about me?
Henry loves his uncle, knows he owes him everything. But he sometimes gets
these flashes of a future he doesn’t want. Pictures himself, gray-haired in the little office. Holding the handrail as he walks down the stairs, grumbling about his ankles. Growing old in this house.
Down the last step to concrete. He passes loose boards and plywood, left over from bookshelves he made a couple of months ago. Passes the washing machine and dryer, goes to his draftsman’s desk, and tosses his sketch pad on top. Frowns at it, can’t get his eyes to focus. Doubles back to the dryer. He empties the clothes into a basket, carries this to a folding table, and sorts everything into three piles. Awkward with Kerasha’s underwear. Neat and efficient with his own and his uncle’s clothes, which are easy enough to distinguish: Henry is a half foot taller, and all his clothes are new, most either black or bright. His uncle’s clothes, when Henry spreads them out and folds them, look tired and sad. He pauses on his uncle’s favorite gray pants, the pleated cotton pair he wears for all his meetings with big clients. The fabric is worn smooth, and there’s a faint stain above the left knee, and Henry feels shitty—just shitty—about what happened upstairs. He takes down the iron. Ten minutes later, when most of his uncle’s clothes are in a neat pile—everything pressed, even the undershirts—Henry hears the tap-tap.
The basement has two high windows. If you’re outside on the street, one window is at ground level between this two-family house and the one next door. The other window, again at ground level, faces the backyard. And this is where she raps when she comes to visit.
He goes to the window, pushes the folding chair beneath it, and lets her in.