Sons of War

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  The angry male voices were coming from this block. Standing on a ladder propped against the fence, Dom spotted two guys standing on the corner.

  “Get out of here!” yelled Nate Chavez, the forty-year-old car salesman who lived three houses down.

  Dom jumped down off the ladder.

  “Get inside,” he said to Monica.

  He moved to the drapes covering the living room windows and pulled them open a crack.

  “What’s going on?” Elena asked.

  “Not sure.” From inside, Dom had a better view of the guys. They wore red bandannas around their necks, and tank tops that exposed tattooed flesh.

  Definitely Bloods.

  But Nate wasn’t just some used-car salesman. Like many of the residents in this area, the guy had served in the military. He pushed up his sleeves, exposing lean muscle and army tattoos.

  “Mr. Chavez is about to get into it with some gangbangers,” Dom said.

  Elena walked over to look. She carried the Glock 19 that Ronaldo had taught her to fire. She was a good shot, and Dom had no doubt his mom would shoot if put to the test. He remembered seeing her act crazy only a few times over the years, and they all involved when Dom or his sister was at risk or being bullied.

  “Nate can handle his own,” Elena said. She leaned closer to the window, squinting.

  “You see that?” she asked.

  Dom looked toward the house Lucinda Kent owned with her husband, Samuel, a vet who had lost a leg and part of his arm in Afghanistan ten years ago. Two men crept around the side of the house and into the backyard. Both wore red ball caps.

  “Oh, shit,” Dom said. “I better go warn the Kents.”

  Elena put a hand on his arm.

  “Mom, I have to warn them.”

  “No, you stay here,” she said, grabbing his arm.

  “And leave them? Mom, we have to do something. Let’s at least talk to Nate.”

  He unlatched the three locks on the door, then stepped back out into the warm evening air. Nate remained in his front yard, arms folded across his chest. He watched the two bangers with the bandannas walk around the corner and out of view.

  “Everything okay, Mr. Chavez?” Dom asked.

  Nate nodded and walked over. Elena stepped outside with them.

  “You better be careful with that, kid,” he said, looking at the shotgun.

  “I saw some guys sneaking around Mrs. Kent’s house,” Dom said. “Looks like Bloods.”

  “Shit, I better check it out.” Nate eased a pistol out of a concealment holster at the small of his back.

  “I’ll come,” Dom said.

  “No, you won’t,” Elena said.

  “Listen to your mom,” said Nate. “I got this.”

  He set off across the street and moved around the left side of the house. Dom strained for a better view, gripping the shotgun in sweaty hands.

  A gunshot cracked, and Dom took off running, ignoring his mom’s cries behind him. He moved around the garage and stopped at the fence.

  The backyard had an empty pool, some broken-down outdoor furniture, and a rusted grill—a flashback to barbecues and pool parties in happier times.

  He opened the gate just as the two tattooed men bolted out the back door. One of them carried a wooden box; the other had a backpack.

  It was almost dark, but a quick glance inside the glass door confirmed they had just robbed Lucinda and her husband Samuel. He lay on the carpet in front of his wheelchair.

  “Stop!” Dom shouted at the men. He shouldered the shotgun and followed them with the sights as they ran toward the alley. One of them slowed at his command, but only to pull out a handgun.

  Dom centered the barrel on the gangbanger’s head, moved his finger to the trigger, and froze.

  His target didn’t hesitate.

  Someone slammed into him and knocked him to the ground just as a gunshot cracked. Dom hit the concrete hard, stars breaking across his vision.

  The weight lifted off him, and he rolled over to find Nate on his knees, firing his handgun. He had knocked Dom down, saving him from a shot that would likely have killed him in his moment of hesitation.

  Nate fired off several more shots. The men jumped into the back of a pickup, one of them taking a round to the arm. The passenger in the front seat was one of the men standing on the curb earlier—a distraction, Dom realized.

  “Stay down!” Nate shouted when Dom tried to get up. He kept his Beretta M9 pointed at the alley.

  The truck peeled away, and Nate finally lowered his pistol. He helped Dom to his feet.

  “Jesus Christ,” he growled. “You just about got us both killed.”

  “I was just trying to help.”

  “I had ’em both on my own.” Shaking his head, Nate looked Dom over. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Dom said. The only thing hurt was his ego. He should have taken the shot when he had the chance and taken a dirtbag off the city’s streets. Instead, he had locked up and nearly gotten himself killed. Now the crew of bangers would be back on the streets, free to rob or kill someone else.

  Nate went into the house with Dom and found Samuel lying in front of his wheelchair, gripping his bleeding face. Lucinda was trying to help him up, and he was waving her away.

  “You hurt, brother?” Nate asked. He and Dom helped Samuel off the floor and gently set him back in his wheelchair.

  “Ten years ago, I’d have wiped pavement with their faces,” Samuel grumbled. “Fucking punks.”

  Lucinda wiped a tear from her face.

  “Did they hurt you?” Nate asked her.

  “No, but they took all my jewelry, even my engagement ring.” She directed her red eyes at Dom. “You should have taken that shot, sonny.”

  “I’m … I’m sorry, Mrs. Kent.”

  Nate put a hand on Dom’s shoulder. “All that matters is that everyone’s okay. Jewelry can be replaced; lives can’t.”

  “He’s right,” Samuel said. “Most kids would have run, but you didn’t. You should be proud of that. Now, go home before your mom gets to worrying.”

  Nate put a hand on Dom’s shoulder. “It’s okay, go on home.”

  Dom lingered a moment and apologized once again. On his way out, he noticed a bare kitchen. Not so much as a box of cereal or a can of soup in sight.

  Dom hurried back to his house, where his mom was waiting. Her anger melted for a moment, and she hugged him hard. Then she went back to yelling.

  “Never, ever do that again, Dominic Thomas Salvatore! You hear me?”

  “Yes, Mom, I’m sorry—”

  “What would have happened if someone came into our house when you were gone, and hurt your sister?”

  “But, Mom, the Kents—”

  “Your dad told you to stay here and watch over your sister with me,” she said, her voice softening.

  Monica ran over and gave him a hug.

  “Ah, Mom, give it a rest,” she said. “It’s time to celebrate!”

  Elena wiped something from her eyes and looked at the table, where she and Monica had set out a tray of cupcakes with candles sticking out of the centers.

  “It’s not much, but it’s all I could do this year,” she said, sniffling. “Happy birthday, Dominic.”

  He had all but forgotten: today was his eighteenth birthday.

  “Oh, wow,” he said.

  “Did you not remember what today is?” Elena asked.

  “Totally forgot,” he admitted.

  A rap on the door distracted them, and Dom made his way over to the window to check the front porch. Seeing that it was his best friend, Andre “Moose” Clarke, and Camilla Santiago, he leaned the shotgun against the wall and opened the door.

  “Hey, guys, what are you doing here?” Dom asked.

  Moose lum
bered in, ducking slightly to let his antler ’do clear the low doorway. “You didn’t think I was going to skip out on your birthday party, did you?” He winked at Elena, who smiled warmly.

  “Hi, Mrs. Salvatore,” Camilla said politely.

  “Good to see you both,” Elena said, returning to the kitchen. “Make yourselves at home.”

  Monica slid over and looked at Camilla quizzically. “Are you my brother’s girlfriend?”

  “Monica, go back to your book,” Dom muttered.

  Camilla snickered. “No, definitely not his girlfriend.”

  Moose pulled an envelope out of his windbreaker and handed it to Dom.

  “What’s this?” Dom asked.

  “Just open it.”

  Dom knew that birthday cards weren’t really Moose’s thing, and he wasn’t surprised to see that it wasn’t a card. But the contents of the envelope did surprise him. He pulled out a pamphlet with the insignia of the Los Angeles Police Department.

  “Now that you’re eighteen, you can join up,” Moose said. “Maybe we can be partners. You should join too, Cam.”

  Dom looked up at his friend, studying his face for any hint of a joke.

  “I’m joining next week,” Moose said. “I know it sounds crazy, man, but ain’t no way I’m going to be an actor or a pro soccer player now.”

  “I’ve thought about joining too,” Camilla admitted. “There isn’t much else for us now.”

  Elena brought dinner to the table. Her eye was on the pamphlet, but she didn’t say a word. She set the food down and then wiped at her eye.

  “You okay, Mrs. Salvatore?” Moose asked.

  “Yeah,” Elena replied. “We just had a slight incident before you got here.”

  “What happened?” Camilla asked, suddenly all ears.

  Seeing his friends staring at him, Dom couldn’t just shrug it off, and he told them about the gangbangers.

  “Another reason to join up, baby,” Moose said, slapping Dom on the shoulder. “The city needs us, man. Even my brother is joining.”

  “Ray?” Again Dom checked Moose’s expression for some hint of a joke. His brother had always hated cops.

  Camilla looked just as surprised. She snorted. “Yeah, right, your bro, a cop, pul-leeze.”

  “I’m serious,” Moose said.

  “How about we eat,” Elena suggested in an attempt to shift the conversation.

  “Looks delicious,” Camilla said with a hungry smile.

  They sat around the table, enjoying the home-cooked rigatoni with Parmesan sauce, one of Dom’s favorite meals.

  The to-do across the street made for a subdued dinner conversation, but by the time they were finished, everyone had begun to relax. After Elena took away the plates, she lit the candle that Monica had stuck in one of the cupcakes.

  “Thanks, Mom,” Dom said.

  “Make a wish.”

  Dom looked at the flame and blew it out after wishing for strength the next time he was aiming a gun at someone who wanted to kill him.

  His family and two best friends sang “Happy Birthday,” and Dom finished off the cupcake in two bites.

  “Have another,” Elena said.

  Dom picked up the plate. “Actually, I was thinking I could take these over to the Kents’ house.”

  “That would be very sweet of you,” Elena said.

  Moose and Camilla said goodbye and joined Dom outside.

  “You really almost got shot?” Camilla asked.

  Dom nodded, not mentioning his moment of indecision. “Maybe we can get a game of hoops together after this,” he said, changing the subject.

  “I’m down,” Camilla said.

  “Me …” Moose stopped on the sidewalk and listened to the sirens. “God, things just keep getting worse. We got to do something, guys.”

  Dom kept walking to the Kents’ house.

  When they got to the door, he knocked and held out the cupcakes to Lucinda. “We had a few left over,” he said. “Thought you might like some.”

  A smile cracked on her weathered face. “Thank you, Dominic. I’m sorry for getting mad earlier. It’s just …”

  Shouting came from inside the house.

  It was Samuel, and he wheeled down the hallway to the door.

  “They brought us some treats,” Lucinda said.

  “Is your head okay?” Dom asked.

  “Hurry, come look at this!” Samuel said, ignoring them. He turned his wheelchair and moved back into the living room.

  “Sorry, he got hit kinda hard,” Lucinda said. “Come on in.”

  Dom and his friends followed her into the living room.

  Samuel looked away from the TV. “You see this?” he said, eyes wide. “There’s been another attack. A nuclear power plant this time.”

  The three teenagers crowded around and watched the report.

  “Holy shit!” Moose said as the lights flickered and went off. So did the TV.

  Dom stepped over to the broken sliding glass door to the backyard and watched as lights winked off across the city. This was one birthday he would never forget.

  -4-

  “That’s the rest of ’em,” Vinny said.

  He shut the van door and slapped Doberman on the back.

  “I can’t believe your uncle wants us to sell all this shit in bulk,” Doberman said. “We’d make more if we hustled it out to our contacts the regular way.”

  “He must have a reason,” said Vinny.

  “Probably low on cash, is my guess.”

  “Like the rest of the country.” Vinny walked over to check the row of red five-gallon gasoline containers. They were down to their last ten. Maybe that was why they needed the cash.

  But despite the odds stacked against him, Don Antonio seemed unshaken. He had gotten them to safety in Los Angeles and taken care of them since they fled Naples.

  Footsteps echoed, and Yellowtail walked into the garage, shaking his head. “I get the privilege of playing babysitter with you little shits today,” he said, unslinging a new M4 rifle and walking over to the lockers.

  Vinny and Doberman exchanged a glance.

  “What are you guys lookin’ at?” Yellowtail said. “Grab your guns.”

  Vinny stood there, puzzled. Normally, they did their runs on their own and carried only one gun, in the glove compartment.

  “Get moving, shits,” Yellowtail said.

  “Chill, man,” Vinny said. He was used to verbal abuse from the older guys. Until he took the oath and became a made man in the Moretti family, the others could call him whatever they wanted.

  “Why are you coming with?” Vinny asked.

  “’Cause we’re making a second stop, and I need the van; that’s why.”

  Vinny grabbed a Ruger SR9 and stuffed it in the holster beneath the elastic strap of his blue track pants. Doberman loaded several shells into his sawed-off shotgun, then pumped one into the chamber.

  They all walked to the van.

  “Who’s got the keys?” Yellowtail asked.

  Doberman tossed them over as the garage door opened.

  Christopher pulled the older Mercedes inside and got out with three sharply attired Italian men. There was fit, wiry Lino with his shaved head and expensive sunglasses, battle-scarred Carmine with his slicked-back hair, and Frankie with his long dark hair and that cheesy-looking matchstick in his mouth.

  “Anyone got a Red Bull or some Advil?” asked Doberman. “After the night Vin and I had, I could use both.”

  “Did you get a headache from the cock-sucking conference?” Carmine asked. He flashed a yellow-toothed grin and spat tobacco juice in the general direction of the floor drain.

  “I’m not the one with white stuff on my lip,” Vinny said.

  Carmine brought a finger to his scarred lip, and the men l
aughed even harder.

  “Gotcha, old man,” Vinny said.

  In a rare display of emotion, Frankie actually chuckled. Then he walked away with the other men, bantering and shooting the shit.

  Only Christopher lingered. He walked over to Vinny and murmured, “Be careful today. Things are bad out there.”

  “I will.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll watch the kids,” Yellowtail said.

  “Make sure you do as Zachary says,” Christopher said.

  The Morettis’ Escalade swerved into the driveway, disgorging Antonio, the quiet Raff, and a big, hefty guy Vinny didn’t remember ever seeing.

  Christopher and crew all came to attention as Don Antonio approached.

  “Ah, Vin, got someone I’d like you to meet,” he said. “This is your cousin Vito.”

  The husky man looked old for a cousin.

  “Second cousin,” Vito said in a gruff voice. He was big, at least two fifty, with long hair, and a large mole on his right nostril.

  Vinny remembered him suddenly from his youth. “Vito, good to … Jeez, I haven’t seen you since I was a kid!”

  “Been in South America with some of our other relatives,” Vito said. He patted his gut. “Great food down there.”

  The men all laughed, even Raff.

  “Is there any food left there?” Christopher asked.

  Vito grinned, but it didn’t look friendly, and Vinny recalled stories about his second cousin. Like Carmine and Frankie, Vito had a temper, especially when he drank.

  “Good to finally join you all here,” Vito said. “And nice to see you, Vin.”

  The newly arrived men followed Don Antonio to the offices.

  “Later, you two pussies,” Carmine called out to Vinny and Doberman.

  Vinny walked over to the van, shaking his head. He was sick of taking crap from the older men, running errands, and doing the scut jobs. He wanted in on the drugs and the “big stuff,” whatever that actually was.

  He got into the back of the van, sitting on the seat next to the clothing racks, while Doberman climbed up front. Yellowtail pulled out of the garage, turning up the music as he drove.

  “Man, I hate American music,” Doberman said. He held out a cord that was connected to his phone. “Let me hook this up. I’ll play some real music.”