scars on my face tend to scare the younger ones, but the unwavering stare of this kid has me wondering what he’s seen, so much worse that he can look a monster square in the eyes without flinching.
I tug my cigarettes from my pocket, and that’s when his father grabs him by the jaw, giving a hard jerk toward the hook. The kid keeps his head cocked where his dad put it, only sliding his eyes toward me when the asshole goes back to baiting the line.
I light my smoke, thinking back to the one time my father took me on a chartered fishing trip, miles out from shore. The idea of floating out on the open sea with him was unsettling enough, but when I saw the liquor he packed away for the excursion, I wondered if it was worth the risk of him calling me a pansy for backing out. At no point was any part of the trip what I’d consider to be a happy memory, but there was a single moment, before he got too drunk, when he set his hand on my shoulder. He was introducing me to the captain of the boat, and for a fleeting second, I felt like any other son accompanying his father.
An hour later, the same hand that’d rested on my shoulder pushed me with enough force to knock me over the edge, into the water. He’d gotten trashed and belligerent, and it took three crew members to pull me aboard, while my father sobbed in the galley of the boat.
As I bobbed in the ice-cold waters with whatever the hell swam below the surface, my lifejacket tight around my throat, all I could think about was how good it felt to scare the shit out of him for once.
“You had to pick the last fucking bench on this pier, didn’t you?” Franco’s voice reminds me of something out of Goodfellas, a wanna-be mafioso who just didn’t make the cut. Our family lines go way back to the days when my great-grandfather bootlegged liquor for his great-grandfather. Not that we grew up together. My father never trusted the Scarpinatos enough for family barbecues and other recreations. He kept everything business. Smart, considering they were affiliated with the Boston faction of the New England Mafia.
At five-foot-five, Franco doesn’t seem like much of a threat, but considering his connections, he isn’t someone to piss off, either.
Unfortunately for him, I never really had what I’d call a healthy appreciation for the line that separates life from death, so I anticipate this meeting to go over like a porno mag at a Catholic school. Makaio waits within shooting distance, and Rand sits alongside him, probably ready to respectfully chide my ass when he finds out what actually went down. I’m not stupid enough to come alone, despite sitting here by myself.
“Thought it’d be quiet out here,” I say.
Franco plops down at the other end of the bench, lights up his own cigarette, and looks around the pier, no doubt gauging the proximity of ears that might be listening. “Sorry I’m late. Got some shit going down with one of my distributors who skipped town with about fifty grand worth of product.”
“Sounds like a management issue.”
“I had a bad feeling about this kid, but he was buddies with my best guy. Who’d have fuckin’ thought? Just goes to show, you can’t put in a good word for anyone these days.” Leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, he flicks his ash onto the deck. “So, we got a shipment coming in. Big. Over a mil, direct from Columbia. Your guy told me they loaded it on a container two days ago.”
For the last few years, his family has relied on my father’s shipping company to bring in pallets of cocaine straight out of South America, by offloading a few miles offshore and having local fishing fleets deliver and, in some cases, distribute the drugs, while offering a modest cut for our troubles. It’s a system that has existed below the radar, fortunately, but I believe a man’s luck only lasts so long.
I turn my attention toward the kid again, who stands holding the fishing line at the railing of the pier. Arms crossed, his father stands beside him, shaking his head like the kid’s doing something wrong. “This is the last job I’m running for you, Franco. I want you to let your uncle know.”