“So Brad, where’re we heading tonight?”
Pain trickled to my brain – you rested your hand right on that damn wound. Wondering if you sensed anything strange, I waited for questions. The following silence assured me that the bandage was safely hidden under layers of clothes.
“Your call ma’am.”
Like a songbird, you giggled and squeezed my shoulder again: “Are you sure we got cash for whatever I may ask for? We spent this full month’s salary yesterday.”
“Ha, where did our angelic, not materialistic Dr. Jones go today?” “Doctors need to get paid, just as Captain Anduine needs money to sail those gilded yachts. Plus, I’m not a doctor yet. Now, captain, time to pay tribute for your angel.” You chuckled and patted gently on the same spot.
The suffering this time was refreshing, so was you mentioning my job. Before this day, I too assumed my work was to crew luxurious boats and welcome every guest with an artificial smile, a decent profession for a decent man. Now, your words and friendly pat reminded me of bullets dashing in the water, of chilly breeze blowing through soaked textiles, of the dark suitcase sitting in my trunk…
“One grand.” I swung my index finger in the air, vainly attempting to wipe out those awful scenes.
“No kidding!”
I pounded the stuffed wallet in my chest pocket. It felt much heavier than it actually was.
You laughed in amazement: “Wow, aren’t you a sorcerer? How did you pull this much money out of nowhere?”
My dear Maria, the way I obtained the money was not magical, but quite physical. I was sure that you wouldn’t want to hear a letter about it. Also, don’t feel guilty for indulgence. There’s forty-nine thousand bucks sleeping right behind you, stuck with whatever belonging I could grab from my place, enough to keep me from being stranded.
“My lady,” I said as we turned right into the Broad Street, not even six p.m. but already jammed with vehicles, “I’ll reveal my trick once we get to the place.”
“Fine, I like mysteries. Just don’t forget about it.” You leaned back on the not so comfortable seat, peering at the end of the busy road. A mixture of city lights and neon signs reflected in your pupils - they had an odd resemblance with the old man’s. He used to stand on the front deck, staring at the horizon like a statue. There had been images of landscape in those hazel eyes besieged by wrinkles.
Drawn up in thoughts, I almost missed your words: “Darling, remember that fancy place two blocks from Eddie’s? We dreamed of dining there for so long.”
“Sure, we’ll get there in minutes if the traffic’s not bad.”
And then we moved on, navigating through a flood of automobiles. You spoke, about the sweet and sour in the day, laughing at a nervous but lovely teen couple and complaining about some grumpy old lady. I listened, dropping a word or two to show empathy.
A buddy, nah, an acquaintance of mine, once told me that I got talent at opening others’ mouths. “You’re the best audience pal,” he said while gulping vodka, “anyone would treat ya like his daddy and tell ya his deepest secret within three shots.” He might be right. Many around me had bestowed me complete trust, the bloody trust that cost two men their lives and was ready to take more.
Twelve minutes passed and we turned left from the Broad Street. The narrow alley ahead looked astonishingly familiar. Every brick, every dusty window, and every shadow on the sidewalk seemed to be somewhere wandering in my head… You got this feeling too, didn’t you?
“Look how packed Eddie’s is!” You paused the little talk and signaled right.
“Not usual for a Tuesday night.” I answered. How could I miss that giant scarlet sign dangling above my head? For an instant, I regretted taking this route. Too many people who knew me hang out around here. They could hand me to the cops once the news broke out. Plus, this old pub was where everything, everything about us and everything led up to that day commenced.
I lowered my hat and tried not peeking into the bar.
Suddenly realizing something, you tapped my elbow: “Speak of Tuesday, Brad, do you remember what day of the week was our first date? I’m positive it was a Tuesday.”
The past had been the foe I tempted to run away from, but when you brought up those memories, I wished we could live the same day over and over again. After all, the good times spent with you would become past tense eventually, if it hadn’t already.
“I do. It was when there’s discounts for each day of the week right?” “Yeah, and we bought the ‘buy one get one free’ oyster plate, and some cocktails. Those cold stuff was so nice for a hot summer day.”
That was not only a hot day, but also a sunny one, as bright as flame. You broke into my life like sunlight pouring into a dark cave.
“We ate and chatted, right there by the tulips, from seven till midnight.” I pointed at the seats by the balcony, cautiously not turning towards it. Through the corner of my eyes, I saw a group of men and women crowding around the tiny wooden table, laughing and shouting. The happiness on their face was definitely on ours.
“That was such a fantastic dinner,” you said in a nostalgic tone, “going out that day was among the best decisions I’ve ever made. To be honest, processing your request earlier that day was the best deal I’ve ever done.”
“ ‘Cause you got me.” I made sure to sound joyful, but the word “deal” threw unbearable weight upon my heart.
Amused by my words, you smiled and stretched out your pale arms like Christ: “I feel it’s better to say: ‘we get each other from that deal’.”
What do you, a hotel front desk and a gonna-be doctor, know about deals? I admit that the deal you made was crucial. Without it, without us coming across each other in the hotel lobby, we’d stay as strangers in this concrete labyrinth. But my love, can you imagine what deal I made to rebuild my fractured life?
Look at eight o’clock, yep, under the shadow of the weather-beaten billboard. See the men in grey jackets putting their heads together? That’s what dealers looked like. Guns, drugs, girls - you can get anything you desire as long as you go to the right guy, and of course, with enough cash. Penniless? No worries, they’ll lend you some with “reasonable” interests, and tell you to squander them away in an hour. Can’t pay back? No problem, pay with house, pickup truck, or suit, you’ll figure this out. Really got nothing? Too bad, life would be the last method…
“Brad, remember to make a U-turn, the place’s on the left.” Oops, we had already passed that bar district where past lingered on. This neighborhood looked much finer, with shops selling clothes cost as much as my car, clubs where you could see famous faces in real life, and restaurants serving delicate, tiny dishes in huge plates.
We parked by the street, instructed by a waiter in black tux. Under the old-fashioned lamps hanging by the door, my newly-washed El Camino seemed as elegant as those car next to us that I couldn’t even name.
“See, here’s the benefit of eating high-end: you don’t need to share an oily table with a dozen drunkards,” you remarked, as we walked into the restaurant, arms linked, “come on mon cher, get rid of the dirty raincoat, relax your face, and fix that tie. Here’s the best dinner place in the area, not a gloomy ship caught up in the storm.”
Normally I’d protest how you land animals never understand the wonder of the sea, but that day I wasn’t in the mood. All I wanted, and all I needed, was us, you especially, to enjoy a memorable night. I’d rather us staying as Mr. Anduine and Ms. Jones under the chandelier, leaving salty gust of the past blowing outside.
It went as expected. Everything was flawless: the champagne, wine, and starters all tasted extraordinary; your words, your laughter, and your touches melted my heart bit by bit. We talked and talked. We talked so much and so passionately, as if it was a first date, between two hearts destined to be tied together. The perfection of that night was so tangible yet so unreal. Occasionally, there was a feeling, that I didn’t deserve a life like this. This sentiment invoked random clips from not-so-distant memories, about the treacherous journey to this glittering moment.
A year ago, I was a broken man, ten times more broken than the version I told you. An ex-seaman who killed his best buddy in a stupid accident, a lost cause whose wife and friends left behind, I escaped into simple pleasures. Started at hard liquor, then weed, coke, and meth, accompanied by casino games and one-night stands, my savings soon went into drought. Lost my job at the mean time, I bonded myself into high-interest debts, trying to get life back to track. I attempted three times and failed trice, spent the borrowed cash away. Pursued by loansharks ready to kill, I gathered all the money I had and purchased a meal at Eddie’s, determined to have the last supper before hell.
At about nine thirty, a middle-aged man, eyes covered with an oversized flat hat, sent the bartender to get me. He offered me a cigarette from a brand that I still could not afford. We chatted for half an hour like old pals, from current events to the depth of my heart, except I learnt little about him - aside from his scarce childhood accounts and bizarre tales about his friends. It was mostly he asking questions, with especial curiosity about my naval career. I haven’t got a good chance to share those for three years, so I poured them out wholeheartedly.
Towards the end, he casually said that he could offer some help, if needed, as if any problem of mine would be manageable for him. Encouraged by alcohol, I told him about my debt, and my yarn for a change. He sympathized with a wise voice and told me that he would get a hand on it, as soon as possible.
“How shall I pay you back?” I asked, with a mind alarmed by those lost years.
“There’s no need. Just remember that you owe me a favor, my friend.” The man got up and shook hand with me.
As he was walking away, I heard his voice coming from several steps away: “Get a job buddy, there’s plenty of yacht clubs down by the river. They’re beggin’ for a good captain like ya.”
I tried to find him and ask more about his identity, or the “job” he mentioned, but his just disappeared in the crowd, like water flowing into water, unnoticed by all the drinkers. I didn’t even know a syllable of his real name - “Antonio” was all I got.
The rest of the day was uneventful. At midnight, some men invited me to do pot, but I turned them down and headed straight back to my messy home. A strange feeling possessed me, telling me that from then on I’d be different from those wasting lives away under neon lights - even though I was certainly one of the “losers”.
The next morning, I found some letters, along with a newspaper, slipped through my door. They were apologies from moneylenders for harassment - and they cleared all my debt. I let the letters fall freely to the ground, looking at the first beam of morning sunshine penetrating the blinds. The light fell upon the newspaper on the ground, marking up a section saying: “Sailing coach wanted… ”
The last chance for a fresh start.
You know the rest of the story. After throwing the letters into the overflowing trashcan, I pulled out my father’s linen suit and borrowed neighbor’s leather shoes. A rusty bus brought me down to the river, where I walked along the highway, knocked on each club’s door. Late that afternoon my phone rang. It was the first call I’d got in a month that was not from a debtor or a salesman – an aloof feminine voice told me to come to work the next day.
Life quickly returned to how it was supposed to be. I went to the rehab house every Saturday, church on Sundays. The counselors suggested me to get some hobbies to take the empty space drugs had left, so I picked up Karate and became the most studious student at the Dojo. And then, I met you on that fateful day…
As for Antonio, I felt grateful and insecure at the same time. At times when I encountered or called some old friends, they’d say a man named “Antonio” wanted to say hi and ask me how I’m doing. I replied with courtesy and asked them to tell my savior that, if he wants to meet up again, I’d be free at any time. It never happened. He remained behind the curtain, omniscient yet invisible, like a deity. At some late nights back from workout, I’d ponder on the meaning behind Antonio’s “favor”. Was it the kind of favor in Mario Puzo films? The name did sound Italian… After two months I stopped bothering myself with these questions to fully live in the precious present.
So yeah, let’s go back to the present.
After we finished the main course and were waiting for dessert, you abruptly raised your wine: “Darling, you promised me something earlier in the car. Can you recall what it was? If not, you’ll have to finish this for me.”
“Was it ‘bout going somewhere after this? Buying you some stuff? Taking you on a yacht trip?” You shook head as I guessed.
I grabbed the glass and emptied it with one breath.
“Sorry babe, I can’t. Too much drinks tonight.” I promise you I wasn’t lying - at that point, I was still intoxicated in my dream and your love, oblivious about the rest of the universe.
“You promised to tell me how you got the money for this,” You touched my hands as I put down the glass on the table, “I’m ready for another cool story.”
My body shivered in terror when your chilly fingers touched mine. It wasn’t just because of your dream-shattering question, but also something came from the next table.
“Have y’all listened to the radio? Don Antico’s dead!” A beardless young man said to his friends excitedly, as if it was some Hollywood gossip.
It already broke out in the news. My speculation was correct - he was the Don, a man admired and feared by families around the nation. Sweat emerged on my forehead, as my brain ran at a crazy speed, making up an excuse for you and imagining about worst-case scenarios, about what those dangerous men would do if they caught me.
“So here’s how the story goes.” I sipped from my drink, trying to appear as calm as possible.
“From what I’ve heard from our local policeman, the old man was stabbed and dumped in the river.” Another youngling said. He forced his fork into the steak while saying “stab”.
That’s not how to stab someone. It was definitely not how I did it. You hold the dagger down but not up, ‘cause it’s more powerful. Then, swing at the side of their neck closest to your dominant hand. Don’t push into the neck - you just need to slice a large wound and let the pressure burst… Why was I thinking about this…
A grey-haired man was standing besides the table. What’s in my hand was no longer a glass, but a shiny blade. He looked at me, smiling, unaware of the liquid leaking furiously from his carotid artery.
My hand went out of control when I saw that damn smile, resembling that of my own father… The wine glass hit the table, but fortunately it didn’t fall over. Several drops of wine spilled out, leaving crimson marks on the tablecloth. The marks spread like blood sinking into white shirt.
“Darling, is everything okay?” You looked at me, concerned.
In a slightly quivering voice, I continued my tale: “I’m fine. Back to the story, do you remember Nate, the dude who came to the club in a red Lamborghini? I’ve been teaching him sailing for a while. We became very friendly and he’s gettin’ more and more obsessed about the water.” This was not entirely a lie. Nevio fitted pretty well into the description.
Speak of that unfortunate man, the next table’s conversation continued: “How? He’d survived so many wars and stayed in power so long - this was why he earned the title ‘Antico’, wasn’t it?”
“Yep, he’s been around since when my parents were in grad school,” A girl said while reaching for her cocktail, “I don’t follow these as much as you boys, but people say he was an amiable mob boss, different from violent gangsters like Al Capone.”
The man sitting next to her in flamboyant clothes said: “Baby you’re right, he was a nice guy. There hadn’t been much violence in this city since he subdued the other factions.”
These teens finally said something right. Nevio was surely a likable, wise man. I could not associate him with any shady stuff, until Antonio made his request. He has been Old Nevio who came to enjoy the river, accompanied by a good-looking young lad Claudio, introduced as his adoptive-son. To me, he was not the felon Freddo Giovanni, the godfather “Don Giovanni”, or the urban legend “Don Antico”, just a man at the dusk of his life who liked sailing and nature.
The only thing notable about Nevio, were calls coming in frequently (it wasn’t unique, since some millionaires I served also got mobile phone on their boats). He did not like responding. Normally he would listen to Claudio reporting in the message and whispered instructions on handling the calls. Claudio, though normally a very outgoing and friendly guy, always went indoors for the phone conversation, making sure I didn’t hear a word. This wasn’t odd to me - everybody has their own secrets. The higher up they are in this world, the more things they hide. All I have to do was keep the boat steady and the customer content.
“So you slowly turned him into a feverish sailor like you,” you said, filling up our glasses with the wine left in the bottle, “I remember you ranting about how rich this Nate is. Too bad he’s gonna waste lots of cash on this sport.”
Nevio wasted more than just money. Sailing effectively ruined the empire he spent his whole life building, leaving him a corpse at the bottom of the river. In this sense, Matt, my comrade who died in an accident because of me, was lucky. He burnt out on the roaring Atlantic - his favorite place on earth - when he was a young man who had nothing to lose. He passed away surrounded by his brother in arms, wearing the black-and-white uniform. Perhaps both men were fortunate: they went through a brief flash of physical pain and reached eternal peace. While I, their murderer, would endure decades of mental torture.
“He is wasting money, but gladly he’ll be wasting it on me.” Tell me, my dear; did my face look fine? Have you sensed any cracks in this mask?
No, you didn’t. You simply returned a blink: “What do you mean by that?”
“He was a criminal, no matter he appeared to be a good person or not. Who knows what crime his minions committed to make that poor guy kill him?” The young man who brought up the subject swallowed his salmon and remarked.
Wrong, Nevio didn’t do any harm to me. We used to be, I don’t know if I can call it “friends”, who shared interesting stories with each other, talking about food, family, and Ronald Reagan. Sometimes I felt he favored me over Claudio, when the son was sent for the call while I stayed with him, looking at the trees on the bank. I still can’t understand why a man praised by his caution and understanding of human nature, would give an average sailor so much confidence.
I did it because I needed to return the favor to Antonio. I could easily turn down his reward of fifty thousand bucks, but I could not reject sheer threat from a ruthless villain. Even though Nevio’s family was the most powerful in the city, Antonio’s bad boys still had enough power to evaporate nobodies like us. And after all, the man was the reason why I could be sitting here talking to you, but not dying in a back alley or rotting in jail.
“He’s planning to sail on the Pacific,” I looked right into your eyes and said, “so he asked me if I wanted to accompany him, with an outrageously high salary.”
“And you accepted it?” You said in astonishment.
“Yeah. This one thousand dollars were a small gift.”
“When are you leaving?”
“We’re heading for Hawaii tomorrow,” seeing your expression, I added, “I’m so sorry that I forgot to inform you in advance.”
“Brad, how could you do this? How could you not discussing this with me?” You moved forward, almost stood up from your chair, eyes burning with fury and confusion.
“It really was rude and stupid for me to do so,” I held your hands with mine, “that Nate guy didn’t let me know until yesterday morning.”
“He was a dick! Both of you,” you said, less angry-sounding, “why did you accept?”
“Because it would be good for us,” I said, wholeheartedly, “with the cash from this trip, we can get a better apartment, maybe a new car. We could afford more meals like this, perhaps even considering a baby…”
Believe me, my dear. All I did and all I said on that day were for you, solely for you. Who knows what calamity would come to us, if I turned Antonio down? Who knows what our lives would turn into, if those debts come to haunt me again? Who knows how badly the truth about my past would hurt you?
“Money is awesome, but have you thought about how important you are to me? The time we spend with each other cannot be bought by cash.”
Stop there. Please say no more. I know these feelings as much as you do, maybe even more…
You lowered your head, and raised it up again, this time looking sad instead of angry: “How long will you be gone?”
A month, three months, perhaps a year, maybe forever. It was not up to me, but to the hitmen and the cops. Nay, they didn’t know either; only Lord can say when I could come back to you.
“About a month, I bet that spoiled dude cannot last long on the sea anyways.” I got up and kissed you on the cheek: “my little Maria, I’ll be missing you every second. Wait for me.”
You relieved and kissed back.
The rest of the night slid like silk moving across your skin. The next table shifted their topic to detective novels and thriller films, talking in the same way that they talked about the case. I stopped silently criticizing their ignorance, because the more I did so, the more old man’s ghost came to disturb me.
We finished dessert, paid generous tips, and got into the front seats. You and I pressed our body against each other, tongues tangling together, until the waiter knocked on the windshield, yelling at us to make space for a sport car.
And then we moved on, in this city full of stars. We chatted a bit, both absentminded, full and drunk. At last, silence arrived in the chamber.
The silence scared me. It was like the silence after I pushed Nevio’s body into the tides. My hand was holding the weapon. The blood dripping from it blended with sweat and raindrops, forming rosy streaks on my palm. I hadn’t heard my breath clearer at any other time - it seemed to be louder than the crying engine. I stood there in silence for a minute or so, like what Nevio used to do for hours. It was only the footsteps of the godson that brought me back to reality…
To terminate the horrific silence, I put on a tape I bought last Friday.
Normally you’d joke about my rustic music taste, but that night you didn’t.
The melancholy harmonica at the beginning reminded me of the song I heard, after I escaped from the yacht. I was running in the woods, carrying the weight of wet clothes and plastic raincoat. Blood kept running out from my left shoulder - Claudio’s effort to stop me from swimming away failed, but he succeeded in putting a bullet in. I finally stopped under a large oak about a mile from the yacht club. Exhausted both physically and emotionally, I sat down to get back on my breath.
Then, I heard harmonica playing an unknown song, coming from somewhere far away. Although I should be cautious about any human beings in vicinity, I stayed there and listened. It pacified my soul as I wrapped up my wound using a technique you taught…
The next time I noticed, your eyes were fast closed.
It was right on time, as the lyrics of that song, was about a pair of serial killers causing carnage across the Midwest. You wouldn’t like it. I found it creepy too, but I let it play anyways, thinking about how different I was from an actual devil.
Now, the next song comes. The cassette box reads “Atlantic City”.
Springsteen’s voice sounds deeper, stronger, and more emotional in this one.
“I got the kind of debts that no honest man can pay.”
“I talked to a man last night, gonna do a little favor for him.”
Listen, my love, you should listen. I get an impulse to wake you up and make you listen. This song is about me, about us, about the bullshit going on in our lives. The lyrics speaks of everything I’d like to say a million times better than I could…
Remember, “Everything dies, baby that’s a fact.”
If my corpse gets discovered in some distant town, or if the cops chase me down, don’t let your heart break. If I don’t come back; just move on. Plenty of legit men are fit for a nice, strong, beautiful woman like you. There would be no need to be stuck with Brad Anduine, a murderer who was already sent to the inferno.
But still, you should wait for me for a bit. Let us see how fate turns out -
“Maybe everything that dies some day comes back.”
You don’t know how badly I wanted to confess during the evening, but I ended up creating an illusion of happiness. Maybe Bruce’s right, there’s no need to break the facade - I should only tell you to “put your makeup on, fix your hair up pretty” and spend tonight with me in this astral city.
Babe, we all try hard to reach the life we desire, we try and fail and try again. Sometimes there could be a wider future opening up, sometimes there would be a deeper abyss lying ahead. More of the times, things just happened and there’s little we could do.
So we drive on the misty highway, not caring about the siren rushing by, into the rain, the wind, and whatever will come.