I can feel the spring in the magazine push the bullet into the chamber as I pull back the pistol’s slide. The supremely engineered hardware makes it feel like one seamless motion. The matte of the gun is its own hole in reality, somehow darker than the dark of the room.
Next to me Bryan rolls the cylinder of his revolver, bringing it to a stop with the action of the hammer. The revolved isn’t loaded – Bryan knows better than that. He also doesn’t know that my pistol is loaded. Bryan talks about special ops commandos and military operations, precision and tactics and hopes of joining the army. I think about terrorists or an active shooter killing their way through our school, fantasies of heroism battling with some part of my brain that tries to think realistically.
Every generation has its own unique fear it carries. Before us it was nuclear annihilation, before that the march of fascism, before that it was yellow fever or polio or Indian attack or something. I lose the thread, but I know it was there, something hanging over the heads of the students in the little red schoolhouse, children waiting for the siren announcing a tornado or some impending disaster. It’s been this way for so long I can’t imagine anyone living any other way.
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“Get up.”
Sitting behind Simon I could still feel his disapproval at having such rudeness displayed in his place of business. I smiled a bit, maybe not even enough to make it to my face. Along with the fat one blocking the door, Balaclava’s words were designed to intimidate, which made their intent clear. Crossing the cafe floor with this finger still pointed at me, he added, “Get up.” The third voyou, a skinny Algerian with something almost like a mustache, flanked him.
I made to push myself up from the table, a good little sheep before the wolves. It was a sin against God and good cooking, but halfway between sitting and standing I threw the plate at Balaclava like a frisbee. It took him in the chin (I was aiming for the throat), the remainder of the eggs and potatoes spinning off as it traveled, causing just enough confusion to give me a moment.
I used that to leapfrog around Simon and put a boot into the Algerian’s groin. I hit him hard enough that his feet came out from under him and he hit the floor with his head. A solid jab to Balaclava’s face kept him distracted for a few more moments, hands flying to his nose. I was mildly impressed that the fat one didn’t panic or run. Instead he made a collapsible truncheon appear from his jacket, whipping it out to its full length as he crossed the distance to me.
Only a fool fights an armed opponent bare-handed, but I couldn’t see a way past him. And if I got away I’d be leaving Simon alone with three angry, thwarted young men. So I grabbed a chair and used it like a ringmaster training an unruly circus bear.
With three quick swings Fatty turned the chair into kindling, leaving me holding nothing but a broken stick. But it got me close enough that I could grab his wrist with the baton and use my other hand to stab his forearm with the splintered end of the chair leg. He grunted and tried to push away, giving me an opening to pull him in close for a headbutt that crushed his nose.
I gave him a swift kick to keep him down. Shaking his head, Balaclava had just enough time to realize he was alone now. I could feel the blood on my forehead and knew by the expression in his eyes Balaclava could see it. Displaying an intelligence that I wouldn’t have given him credit for, he ran for the door.
I tripped him and picked up a chair by its back in one motion, swinging it around to pin him to the floor by his neck. I made to sit on it, causing Balaclava’s eyes to bulge before I had put any weight on it, but I only squatted over him holding it in place with my crossed forearms. “I’m up,” I said to him, trying to sound casual through the blood pumping in my ears. I leaned forward a bit on the chair, pressing the stretcher into his throat. “What can I do for you?”
A small amount of spittle erupted from his lips before I let the chair’s pressure off of his throat, causing the back stretcher to push into his belly. He glared at me even as his eyes bulged. He made to say something, but it came out as half-a-laugh as his eyes dodged behind me. I made to glance in that direction when a hollow clang grabbed my attention. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Simon standing over the Algerian holding a skillet that he had just used to brain the younger man, keeping him on the floor. I smiled my thanks. Simon panted, fear resolving into excitement that bloomed into a grin that made him look like the wolf he might have been decades ago.
“What do you do for a crust?” the old man asked Tim.
Confused by the question, his stomach rumbling at the mention of something that might be food, Tim realized he was being asked about his livelihood. Grateful for the shadow of the underpass that hid his blush, the thought of countless anonymous men came unbidden to his mind. Searching benighted parks for someone to service their cocks outside the illusion of their normal lives, they found Tim, who needed money more than love or honesty. Tim, who now felt the bruises and stains left on him by their self-hatred more than he felt the cold or hunger. Better to stay under the overpass than try to find something new, to head out into the world where he saw shame reflected in the passing faces of every man he wanted to touch.
Blinking tears away he replied, “Oh, you know, this and that.”
The old man in question, Simon, was out in front setting up the few chairs that would fit on the sidewalk that ran along the cafe’s wood and glass entrance. He was hatless, leaving his bald head defenseless against the rain and sun, the white cuffs of his shirt rolled up guaranteeing a farmer’s tan even as he spent most of his day indoors. His rather ample gut hung over the black apron he had tied around his waste, completing the picture of his anachronism. He smiled as he saw me approach, gesturing for me to come inside. “Voici, l’Amèricain. Come in, my friend.”
I did. It was always pleasant to step into the cafe, past the counter with its small army of white porcelain cups, wine glasses and beer mugs, to walk through the rows of round, wooden tables to the back. I don’t know if it was the steam from the espresso machine or something else, but the inside always felt more pleasant than outside, whether that meant it needed to be warm or cool.
I followed Simon’s somehow both bedraggled and formal presence, him leading me across the black and white tiles till he sat me down at one of the marble topped tables that lined the furthest wall. With my back against the somber wood I could see anyone coming and going by the entrance, which always made me more comfortable. With a professional’s eye Simon had noticed that the first time I had visited and he had seated me there since.
After bringing out my plate Simon sat down across from me and lit one of his morning cigarillos. I disliked that he smoked at the table while I ate, but I never complained about it. The eggs, perfectly prepared with no more than some salt, pepper, and a little butter, accompanied by a bit of spicy sausage and potato galette, made this easy to do.
As I dug in, Simon exhaled a plume of smoke, signaling the start of the day’s French lesson. Simon would refuse to speak English for the remainder of the meal and I would fumble responses as best I could between mouthfuls.
True to form he started with the weather. “The winter is finally leaving us.”
“Yes. There is much raining.” I hadn’t mastered French, more or less contractions, so my language came out stilted and with a heavy accent.
“Do you and your woman enjoy the rain?”
“Yes.” The regular April rains were a welcome change from the parched plains of Umbria. But the reasons for that were difficult to explain, so I kept the answer short.
Sensing this was one of the many dead ends our conversations would run into Simon changed subjects. “How was work last night?”
“The same as always.”
My unhappiness at having a job that could have gone to an able-bodied local caused Simon to prod, “Many people here would kill to have a job at the casino.”
“They can have my job.” I tore off a piece of potato with my teeth. “If they can take it.”
Simon wasn’t sure what to make of that response, although I’m not sure if it was because of my gutter French or the content of my sentence. He took a long drag from his cigarillo. “How did you arrive here, American?”
I raised my hungry eyes from my plate, surprised by Simon’s directness. He had always been inquisitive; I suspect he had begun our French lessons as a way of teasing out whatever story had brought me to his small cafe. However, until now his questions had always been oblique. I didn’t know at that moment what had caused him to ask such a blunt question, but I knew I didn’t want to lie to him. I examined his face to see if I could determine what kind of answer he was searching.
Simon was gazing at the mirror above and behind my seat as if he could conjure the explanation out of the glass. I interpreted this as a slip of his professional attention until I heard the high, tinny sound of the bell above the entrance that announced customers. I laughed at myself a little, having let the velvety eggs and spicy sausage distract me from the front door.
Simon had been using the mirror to inspect the newcomers into his cafe. As I snuck a glance past him, my humorous self-deprecation became an earnest caution. Simon’s question made sense to me now as well. The entering trio had the appearance of men searching for someone. I shoveled several forks of sausage into my mouth, suddenly unsure if I would get to finish the rest of my meal.
The voyous were closer to being boys than men in my estimation, but that didn’t matter much. Boys could kill as well as men. Maybe better. Kindness and hesitation were easier to beat out of them. These three looked like they might be that kind. The first one in was an Algerian, tall and thin, his aquiline nose pronounced by childhood starvation and the attempt at a mustache underneath it. Following him, fair by comparison, was another Corsican, the second I’d run into in as many days, bags under his eyes and a black balaclava with a red stripe around his neck. He gave us half a smile, trying his best to appear shrewd beyond his years. The last one, his ancestry straddling Turkey and North Africa, was bigger than the others, round in a way that no diet would ever get rid of. He stopped just on the inside of the threshold, closing the door behind him.
The second one, Balaclava, stepped forward, making a show of scanning the cafe. Then he pointed to me and Simon at the back. “You there, American,” he said in English not much better than my French.
Simon rotated his girth in his chair, leveling an appraising stare at them. “Bonjour. Qu’est-ce que vous faites?”
She’d kicked off her sheets in those final moments, leaving a bloody mess for her daughter, who had set about cleaning up almost without hesitation. A brief second to confirm the end had come, a sojourn into the dining room to call the mortician, then back into room where the hospital bed had been sat for her mother to wait out her final days.
She tried to arrange the arms and legs under the sheets in some semblance of the grace her mother had tried to project in life. As heavy as a dead cat, the limbs were difficult to arrange, captured in linens. The short struggle forced her to admit she didn’t know what the old woman would have wanted.
Here she was, daughter at 42, the age of the secret to life, the universe, and everything. Decades of experience reduced to nothing, a little girl trapped in an aging body, nothing to show for it but a dead mother.
