(playing around with tesnes, I promise there is more present tense at the end)
Prompts: I don’t own these images.
A girl sits on the bank of the river. The sun shines on her gold hair, the breeze playing with it as she taps the ballpoint pen against her teeth. Her dark brown eyes stare deep into the silver-blue slipping by. Her toes wiggle in the mud. She sighs, and sets pen to paper, and writes the date. August 15th.
***
July 31
Mary Jane pulled her Brother into their small apartment in Slate city.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” She yelled. Her brother, Lance, shrunk away from his sister.
“Jeez, MJ, I’m just hangin’ out with some friends of mine.”
MJ nodded, her face reading complete disbelief. “Mhm. I saw you. You were hanging out with Antonio Gianni.”
“So?” Her brother shrugged, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“You know very well he’s Papa Marco’s boy! You should not be hanging around him!”
Her brother rolled his eyes.”You’ve never even talked to him, so how would you know what he’s like?”
“Reputation. Did papa teach you nothing? A reputation is important to have, especially a good one. Antonio’s bad reputation is going to rub off on you, and what do you think is going to happen to mama’s job if her bosses find out about your ‘friend’, eh?”
“They wouldn’t know,” Lance mumbled. “They’re too important to look at a nobody like me.”
“But they would look at a somebody like Antonio and see you behind him. For the love of all that is good in this world, would you just stay away from Antonio?”
Lance’s face curled in anger. “Just because you’re older doesn’t mean you get to boss me around, you’re not mama. I am not a child anymore. I’m almost eighteen, I can be friends with who I please.”
MJ reached out to her brother, her anger somewhat subdued an a sadness settling over her eyes. Lance recoiled from her hand and brushed past her, leaving the apartment and slamming the door behind him. Tears in her eyes, she screamed at the closed door,
“He is not your friend. He will throw you out like yesterday’s newspaper!”
***
August 5
Batter dripped onto the hot pan, it sizzled and popped as MJ made pancakes. Her mama was getting ready for work. As for Lance, she hadn’t seen him much over the past few days. He had avoided her after their argument. She suspected he snuck out in the night. She leaned over the kitchen sink and flipped on the radio, and turned it to the news. Normally people avoided the news, but in Slate city, you listened for death. Death of loved ones, criminals, politicians, rioters, bosses, the death of anyone really.
They had been listening to the news when their pappa’s name came on the radio. A knock on the door came just after the anchorman listed those dead in a shooting at the docks. MJ, nineteen now, was sixteen then. Lance had been fourteen. The officer’s soft words to their mama left her shaky and pale. Their mama collapsed into a chair and did not move for hours, her children putting aside their own feelings to tend to their mother. They passed the night in cold silence, numb to the bone.
MJ blinked away that morning from her mind, deciding to check on Lance. Her mother emerged into the hallway, her janitorial clothes freshly washed. MJ gave her a hug and breathed in her ever-present aroma of lavender.
“Pancakes are on the stove, I’m going to check Lance.”
“Okay, lovebug.’ Said her mama softly. MJ walked down the hall, rapping on Lance’s door with her knuckles.
“Hey, you want pancakes or not?” She called. She didn’t hear a groan or a laugh, not even a rustle of covers. She opened the door and her heart seized. Her brother’s bed had been shabbily stuffed with pillows. The window was open, the fire escapes a perfect exit.
CRASH! MJ heard a dish break and a sharp gasp.
“Mama!” She called, as she ran back into the kitchen. Her mother had frozen in front of the radio. MJ listened.
“If you’re just tuning in with us in the top of the hour, a breaking report has just come in. Three dead in a knifing down in the Wharves. One young man, in particular, is wanted for the crime, his picture taken by CCTV cameras near the Goldings Shipping company offices. Inquiries are being made to his identity. He may have had accomplices, but that remains unknown, there is no evidence of them on any CCTV cameras in the area. If you happen to know anything about the murders, please call the station now, the number is…”
“I don’t understand,” said MJ. “Why did you drop the dish?”
“Lance isn’t in his room is he?” She asked quietly.
“No.” She said, her voice small. The hand that had dropped the dish continued to shake. MJ noticed the morning paper in her other hand. Lance’s face was on the front page.
***
MJ remained glued to the radio all day, nothing could take her away. Eventually, the information she desired came to her.
“The young man caught on the CCTV Cameras of Goldings Shipping co. has been identified and arrested. The young man in question is Lance Roberts, of the west side. He was found this morning in an alley on Rowing Lane, behind a dumpster with blood on his hands. There is no official statement as to his alibi or motive, so we can only speculate at this point…”
The old phone on the wall rang, MJ picked it up, and twisted a certain kink in the chord to get a better signal.
“Hello,” She said.
“MJ, it’s mama. I’m down at the police station, they won’t let me see him. I bet you anything the will be too high.” Air and fabric ruffled on the other side of the phone, MJ’s mama whispered into the phone. “I bet you anything it was the G’s.” She did not dare speak the name, Gianni. MJ’s throat went dry. She closed her eyes.
“I told him, mama. I told him Antonio wasn’t his friend.”
“Hush, not too loud.” Hissed her mother. “I’m going to stay and find out as much as I can. I’ll be home late, don’t stay up.” Her mama sighed. “I love you, dear. Stay safe.” The phone clicked and buzzed as her mother hung up. MJ set the receiver down. She stared into space for a minute before she dashed off to her room, determined to do something, anything to help her brother.
She grabbed her small shoulder bag and placed in it, some money for the phone, a notepad and pencil, a flashlight, a granola bar and a knife that glittered different colors in the quickly dimming light. She left the house, locking it, and putting the key under the door, back into the apartment. Lance’s window was shut but unlocked, and her mother had her own key. She turned to run down the street but stopped. She scribbled a note to her mother and slipped it under the door.
She found Antonio Gianni outside a movie theatre three blocks away from her apartment. Hands in his pockets, he wandered away from the theatre whistling a tune from the radio.
“Hey!” She called. He didn’t stop. “Gianni!” She called. Her heart fluttered, saying that name was tantamount to suicide. Antonio stopped and looked lazily over his shoulder, smirking when he saw her. Turning around and continuing on his way he said,
“Go home to your mama, MJ. I’m sure she doesn’t need another child in jail.”
MJ advanced on him. “You know very well you put him there.”
An evil grin split Antonio’s face. “Knowing it is different than proving it. You have no proof I was even there at the docks last night. For all you know I was home in bed.”
“I know it was you.” She repeated, the words sounded feeble.
“Again,” he laughed. “Prove it.”
“Do you know what they were killed with?” She asked.
“Knife. Kinda like the one you’re fingering in your bag.”
Her eyebrows raised.
“Come on, you don’t think I can’t see weapons so clumsily concealed?” He ran a hand over his face. “Look. I, uh, don’t know what to tell ya’. Your brother’s guilty, you need to accept the facts.”
“I’ll prove it! I’ll take you down, just watch!”
Antonio laughed. She turned away, flushed and angry. She bumped headlong into a tall man in a suit. She tried to pass him, he held out an arm. Her knife was flicked open and she attempted to stab the man or at least make him flinch away from her. He didn’t flinch. He took her wrist and tightened his grip until she dropped the knife. Antonio sidled up next to him and picked up her knife.
A boxy black car pulled up next to them, and Antonio got in first, the big man forcing MJ into the car. MJ didn’t scream or try to run. If they were taking her to Papa Marco, that’s exactly where she wanted to be. They drove in the dark car for twenty minutes, circling the city, the blacked out windows throwing off MJ’s sense of direction. When they stopped, the big man with the dark eyes grabbed her wrist and pulled her into a warehouse. In the middle of the open floor sat a long dining room table surrounded by chairs.
The table was draped in red. Each chair had a place setting with fine china and silverware. Crystal goblets sat at the table, ready to be filled. Tall candlestick holders with twelve tall white candles apiece were the only light in the room. At the head of the table in a straight-backed golden edged chair was, MJ presumed to be Papa Marco.
“Come, MJ, is it? Come sit. Welcome to my meeting table.”
She walked slowly down the table admiring the setting, and the food on the end of the table.
“Eat, you look hungry.” Said Papa Marco.
MJ shook her head.
Papa Marco nodded. “No appetite considering what happened in this morning. Terrible. Terrible.”
“My brother would not be in jail if it weren’t for you.” She said icily.
“Ah, in a way you’re right. If I had never met Antonio’s mother, Lance would not be in jail. But you are operating under the impression that I wanted those men killed. And while true that they each owed me money, the sum was too small to kill. Torture a bit, maybe, but not kill, they weren’t worth that. It was petty killings.” Papa Marco waved to an attendant who brought him a sealed bottle of wine. Papa turned the bottle to look at the label.
“Ah, St-Emilion Cheval Blanc 1947. Excellent.” He looked over at MJ. And waved another attendant who a bucket of ice with three cans of soda. “An alternative, my dear.”
MJ picked up a can of Coke and poured it into the crystal glass, after turning down his food, it would be a dear offense to refuse all repast Papa Marco opened the bottle of wine with a twist and a pop of a corkscrew. He poured it into his own crystal glass, then picking up the glass swirled it in his hand. He stared contemplatively at the wine before saying,
“Petty killings. Yes. Antonio took my affairs into his own hands and decided to extract payment from those men with their life.” He raised the wine to his lips and shot his son a dark look. “And my fool of a son has cost me one point five grand.” He sipped the wine and replaced the glass onto the table.
“Money of that sum is not important in the grand scheme of things,” He continued. “But it will be missed in my men’s pockets, and I also have to think about the principle of the thing. How am I supposed to continue making my investments if I am to have no respect or actual payout.”
“I don’t know the answer to that.” Said MJ. She picked up the fizzing crystal glass. Her hand shook as she thought of the previous lips it had touched. No doubt it had touched the lips of liars, thieves, and murderers. It might have touched the lips of one or more of the men who had been killed the night before. She put it down.
“I have an answer, and if you agree, you can save your brother.”
She raised her eyebrows. “But with no guarantee of anything.”
He sipped his wine and scoffed as he replaced the glass on the table. “Of course not. But beggars cannot be choosers can they.”
“I will hear what you have to say.”
“First, I must ask you a question. Tell me: Would you kill to save a life?”
“Who’s life.”
“A quick, unhesitating answer. Exactly what I want. The life of your brother of course. The severity of the murders, three bodies killed in cold blood, is enough to send your brother to criminal court rather than juvenile as he is a minor. I will give Antonio credit for cementing the certainty that he will be tried as an adult considering his birthday is in two days. Sad, how he will spend it in jail. The penalty for second-degree murder, as the law has determined the case to be, is nineteen to twenty-five years without the option of parole. Your brother has a clean record, so the minimum release date of your brother is when he’s thirty-seven. His life will have been spent in prison, and he won’t know how to function outside of it.”
“How do you know what the police think?” Asked MJ, though she and half the city already suspected why.
“Simple question, simple answer. I own the law. At least the majority. Not all cops can be crooked.” He smirked and took a sip of wine. “However, there is nothing against complete corruption in lawyers.”
“What do you want me to do?” She asked.
“I want my money, and I need someone dead to get it.”
MJ’s throat tightened, she had known this would be required. She asked the most important question of the night. “Who?”
“I need you to kill one Rocco Luca a marshal employed in the transportation of criminals between the court and holding cells. He has not only ensured that multiple escape attempts have been foiled and some of my best men have gone to prison because of him. His is one of the more hated names in my innermost circle, and my friends and I have placed a bet on his head. My friends will play twenty-five-k per person in a four six-person group, including myself, to whoever kills the man.”
“You want me to kill him?”
“Nothing gets past you does it.” Papa Marco muttered and sipped his wine.
“How am I supposed to get close to a marshal, kill him and not get caught.”
“Look at it this way.” Said Papa Marco. “You kill this one man for me, I get two-hundred grand. You get your brother free and clear, I know the members of the jury very well. I will clear his name of all charges and remove this black spot on his record. However, you, my dear cannot expect to get away unless you’re very very careful. Our arrangement is your brother, not you.”
“I can’t shoot, knife, or strangle a man in cold blood.” Said MJ.
“Then your brother won’t see the sun a free man until he’s old and gray.”
“Could I propose a compromise?”
Papa Marco picked up his glass, his eyebrows raised.
“Your men kill him and frame me for the murder. You could frame me for the other three murders too. Antonio has my knife, kill Ro-,” She paused, she couldn’t say the name of the man she was going to die with her help. “The marshal,” she continued. “My fingerprints are on it, though you may want to wipe it off and let me print it again so Antonio’s prints aren’t on it.” She plucked a few of her dark curly hairs from her head and placed them on a crisp white napkin from her plate. “DNA evidence.” She took a steak knife from the table and cut a piece out of her shirt. “My shirt ripped in the scuffle, or even getting away.”
“My dear, you were born for this life. Are you sure you don’t want to be the one behind the knife?”
“I have a conscience. This is the only way I could possibly live with myself.”
“You can plot a man’s death but you cannot be the one to execute it.”
“Exactly.” She said, her voice becoming rough. She hated the fact she had just agreed with that.
“Do you have a record? Fingerprints in the database?” Asked Papa Marco.
“I’ll rob a convenience store. Plant a man inside to call the cops, I keep shifting around with my knife, the one in Antonio’s pocket, nice and visible. I get hauled in, printed etc, and your boys get me out. Organize the man to take me to a holding cell to be the marshal. My motive for killing the martial will be his escorting me to the holding cell. I’ll make sure I sound and look irrational, but not insane.”
“You have a wonderful sense of planning and ingenuity. I like your plan.”
“One condition upon my framing.”
“Oh, do tell?”
“Let me escape. If I run, I look more guilty. Use some of your corrupt cops and give me a violent escape.”
“You do this so well. It’s a shame I’m letting you run away. Very well, your plan is sound. I have the right to do what I want when I want, in the way I want it.”
The plan was in place. MJ’s throat went dry. Papa Marco poured himself another glass of wine. He stood and looked around the dim shadows at his men.
“To the plan.” He raised his glass.
“To the plan.” Echoed through the room. MJ remained silent. Papa Marco, wine still raised in the air, raised an eyebrow at her. She grasped the crystal glass with flat soda and lifted it.
“To the plan.” She said, her words choking on the way out. Papa Marco’s eye contact never broke, as she drained the glass.
Thanks for reading! I hope you like it! It’s part one of two (or three, I don’t know how long it will be. The story is over when its over.)
I honestly gave the Artful Author horrible prompts. I hope they’re better this week.
Here’s a link to her post with her Story: Sparklers at 3 AM
