Bad blood chokes back the reply he wants to give me, and his repulsive voice sours on his tongue. I can see it in his hardly-controlled spiteful expression. “Don' shoot the messengah, Freddy,” he sneers. “I taught ya better.”
Then he turns away, leaves me to dwell on the dagger-points of his words as they tunnel deep into the emotional triggers that I pretend not to have. I could stand and seethe forever. What does one do when the messenger is the Devil?
Just before the door closes, I catch it. What can I do?
Embrace the agony, all the realities I'd love to forget, all the ghosts that trail behind the man who was once like my father.
Embrace the irony, the cruel justice of being the guard, taking a lesson from that old story about the monkey's paw: be careful for what you wish.
And wait. Eventually the moment will come for me to take my retribution.
Chapter 13 Bless the Bullet
Maria
Smoke hangs heavy against the ceiling, so thick it seems to breathe itself into being, so animate I'm sure I can see the ripples of my heartbeat in it. I watch it curl around lazy ceiling fan blades in the current created by the door opening, then closing.
The smoke and the fans are the only things that move in the room. The voices have died around me. I'm drunk, but the speed balances my inebriation, so that the temper that might usually rise is content to slither coldly in my gut.
Charlie, if your spirit lingers, guide my hand and bless the bullet. If it flies, it does to honor you.
I make a slow sigh as I cross myself, a dramatic play, I admit, as my guests and my boys are frozen to their roots, as I make them all wait. I've never been much for my family's Catholic heritage, but if any prayer has ever mattered, it's this one.
Expectancy shuttles between me and my untimely interruption. My guests are to my left as I face the door, all of them seated in a line behind eclectic, retro tables. Joshua, Isaiah, and Jack are to my right, also seated. I had just taken the floor to speak when Noah crept inside. Now Noah has resumed his guard post, with his barrel trained on the driver outside, and Frederick stands rigid with his beautiful piece of a gun held steadily on his only mortal enemy. Oh, how quickly momentum can change.
Charlie, if you have moved on, from your place in heaven, please look away. My actions are only mine.
I drop my eyes to the door, to Derrik, the Jester as he's known in dirtier circles. There is sweat on my skin, but my gaze is cold. I hook my fingers on Charlie's gun without looking at it, and it drags on the table as I pick it up. The sound creates turbulence in the suspense. Its weight becomes more familiar every time I hold it. I wonder if I'd feel anything if I put a slug in the Jester's gut right now. I point the chrome .40 at him, just to see if my nerves stir. All eyes on me. Still nothing.
So I say, “You are not welcome here. You know that.”
My brother used to say that the secret to owning the moment was to find the right vibes and surf them. I don't know if “right” is a good adjective, but it feels like some higher power guides my movements just now. I take slow steps closer and Derrik's hands inch a little farther in the air. The automatic toothy smile on his lips falters as he finds himself staring down my barrel. I wonder if he recognizes Charlie's gun.
He says, “I heard there was some sort of bus'ness meetin'.”
I'm certain the confidence he means to portray doesn't come as strongly as he'd like.
His expression plays like a morbid comedy as he tries to maintain a cool and collected front, but I can see the wariness swimming in his eyes as I lift the steel just a little, so that it's trained on the middle of his face. Perhaps he thought he knew us, knew me, from past encounters. Perhaps he thought he had adequately gauged this situation from afar. And maybe, now, he's realizing that he was sorely wrong. He doesn't know this girl at all.
I can almost feel his desire to back away from me. He has to know that if I pull the trigger, even if this big ol' gun kicks, the space behind his eyes will be gone. All the muscles along my arm pull against one another, beg for me to do it without ever hearing another word from his vile lips, but it'd be wrong of me not to give Freddy first dibs.
I cock my head to the right the slightest bit and say, “I don't know what you're talking about, this is obviously just a gathering of friends.”
His eyes flick almost imperceptibly at Freddy, who hasn't moved since he came in, who also has his sleek silencer aimed at his former mentor. My beautiful and deadly Frederick. I know, just as the Jester must know that true rage manifests in Frederick like the slow tip of an icicle as water drips down, freezes. When he's aggravated, he'll fight anyone. But once he is past violence he is extremely dangerous. I wonder if he's even breathing. I can only imagine what filth has already spewed from Derrik's mouth.
I wait for the Jester's eyes to reconnect with mine, just so he knows I am absolutely serious and say, “So it seems you're being a party crasher, and nobody likes a party crasher.”
He cocks a crooked half-grin, but there's still fear in his eyes. Could it
