fic: Irish Whispers
Aug. 1st, 2020 09:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bonnefoisTitle: Irish Whispers
Series: TF2
Character/pairing: Scout, Scoutma, Miss Pauling, Spy, (Spy/Scoutma)
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 6,850
Author's note:
Part of a multichapter work called "Loving Ghosts."
Other chapters: After I'm Wild Again, Beguiled Again, Playing House. Did You Have to Let It Linger? and Haunted and, before Last Call, Trace The Ghost Family
And yes, dyslexic and ADHD!Scout.
1968
For Sarah.
There were always people saying Southie used to be peaceful, but somehow they forgot about the Winter Hill gang, or that gang wars had always been on this side of town. People around here kept bats close, but not only for baseball. Plenty of people in Southie had the kind of bat with twisted metal nails out, which sure wasn't the type anyone would hit a home run with. Unless it was a home run to the skull.
Southie wasn't a place you went to the cops. Nothing was worse than ratting someone out. You had a problem with someone, you solved it with your fists, like men. And sure, all the ladies around here had guns in their purses. Anybody who tried some shit would get a face full of lead.
Liam had the toughest brothers in the whole city. They were a gang of their own, the Dempseys. And they answered to nobody but God and Ma, and not always in that order, either.
His brothers were all built tough. Barrel chested, dark haired and stocky. Liam was different from them. Taller, thinner, and a hell of a lot blonder. Most fights, he'd never even get to throw a single punch, because with brothers as tough as that, it'd all be over before he even got there.
That's what you get for bein' the runt, pipsqueak, Michael would say. And ruffle up his hair, in a way Liam hated.
But, Liam had a hidden ace up his sleeve. Not literally--according to his brothers, he was literally the worst Poker player on earth. He could never keep his emotions pushed down enough. When he got a good hand, he'd end up bursting into a big grin, and a bad hand would leave him saying words that would have ma saying she'd have to wash his mouth out with soap.
He could run. Real fast, Olympics fast. He'd almost gotten somewhere with that, on the track team. He'd been real popular and almost gotten a real scholarship. Except, someone like him couldn't stop fighting and got himself kicked out.
Ma was still real sore about that, considering he would've been the first of them to go on to college. Except, Liam knew he would've just failed out. Every time the nuns would get to talking, his mind would go all the places he could be instead of here. Training, running, a thousand places at once. He couldn't keep still, couldn't keep his mind in place, and the words kept moving, just like his mind.
He'd tried to speak up and tell them, he wasn't a dummy, the words just kept getting tangled until they were hard to take, but all he'd gotten was slapped on the wrist and laughed at.
Liam learned fast that if something was wrong, he had to keep his mouth shut, because nobody cared if he couldn't sit still. Nobody believed him when he told them about how the words would get all messed up--they'd just call him a dumbass.
And maybe he was a dumbass, because nobody else saw words like he did. All of them could read without their legs bouncing. All of them could read, period.
Liam learned fast that this dream of ma's, that he'd go on to be some fancy college grad wasn't gonna happen. Which didn't mean he'd given up. Just because he'd lost that scholarship, he'd find another way.
Liam put on his wraps every day before his morning run. Not only did it keep his grip tight, it helped with the fantasy. He'd punch at the air and practice his stance, for the day when he'd be heavy enough to take up boxing, too.
*
Liam finished out his run. He had a few bits of change in his pocket, enough to buy him a drink to cool off. Nothing much, just what was left from his stint as a paperboy last summer.
He caught sight of O'Shea on the corner of the boarded over shop that used to be there. The windows were broken in, and glass still shone on the cracked concrete. It was easy to catch sight of O'Shea, with his pale skin and hair so red it looked orange close-cropped, like he'd already gotten drafted. And maybe he had. All over Southie boys were going overseas. Many of them came back in coffins, or looking so haunted that they might as well have been in the grave.
There'd been little whispers of maybe they'd sign up before the drafts, but that was before the boys started coming back in caskets, draped in flags. Then, it became even more of a funeral watch. One for the boys who came back, and one for the ones about to go overseas.
All the Mas were tense that their boys would be the next hero, draped in glory.
O'Shea's jeans were ripped, and he wore a plaid jacket full of patches to push back the chill of the day.
He and O'Shea had been classmates for a while, until O'Shea had dropped out. The guy always had some scam or scheme. Usually about two things: making money and flirting with gals. In that, at least, they were alike.
Not that they had much else in common, because O'Shea was taller than him (something which never failed to piss off Liam.) He had a mess of freckles over his nose. He always had to pull his cap down low, because with skin that pale, he'd burn even on a cloudy winter day.
This part of Southie had been rotting away, with closed down buildings and barred doors where stores used to be. Retired or died, nobody came to claim the buildings. At least they had some privacy, Liam supposed.
O'Shea gave him a smirk as Liam got closer.
"Ey, long time no see. I heard you finally dropped out. Bout fuckin' time, I say," O'Shea said.
Liam glanced back over his shoulder. "Not so frickin' loud. Ma's real sore about it. She worked real hard to get me into St. Catherine's, and she's not too happy about me losing that scholarship. Anyways, you're late on the deets. I got thrown out ages ago. Ma's been tryin' to get me to study for the G.E.D thing so I can go to college on my own, though it's hopeless. She just don't want none of us drafted."
"Can't blame a lady for tryin' to keep her family alive, I suppose," O'Shea said.
"Where you been, man? I been askin' around and nobody would talk. You in the clink?"
O'Shea ran his fingers through his mess of curls with annoyance. "Nah, I was out west helpin' with some relatives. Ma thought it would 'straighten me out' after that last time I nearly got caught pickpocketin'. All that happened was I picked up new tricks. So what'd you get thrown out for, fightin' or swearin' or fuckin'? Of course I know it's the first two--you're as pure and virginal as the Holy Mother Mary."
"Fuck off, O'Shea," Liam muttered. "You're goin' to hell with that kinda talk."
"You know I'm right."
"Like you're any better. Catholic girls don't flirt around," Liam said.
"Correction: They don't flirt with you."
"Uh-huh, I don't see any girlfriend with you," Liam said.
"I'm way too young to be tied down like that," O'Shea said.
Liam smirked. "Hey, I'd be happy to be tied down."
"Sure you would."
Liam put his hands in his jeans pockets. One of them had a hole, and he slipped his finger into it.
"I been tryin' to find a job, but ain't nothin' much here. Can't really do that cashier crap, I'd cuss out the customers," Liam said.
"What are you bitchin' about? Your family's got a teamster's union card. A job out by the docks would be yours eventually. You can get decent enough pay there."
Liam gave him an irritated look. "Sure, workin' my ass off as a cog in the system until I die, and barely gettin' by, sounds fuckin' great. But it's either that, or dyin' in the gutter bein' one of the boys, and ma would kill me if I ran with the mob."
Liam shook his head. "I'd rather die young than die old havin' never lived because I spent all my days doin' a job I hated. At least I'd go out with a bang then."
O'Shea tossed aside the last remnants of a cigarette and stubbed it out on the broken concrete. His jacket and jeans were full of cigarette burns where he'd gotten careless.
"You wanna bum a smoke?"
"Nah, man. You know me. I gotta save my lungs for runnin'. That stuff makes me cough and leaves a gross taste in my mouth."
"If it tasted like bubblegum, you'd probably smoke 'em by the carton," O'Shea said. He stubbed the cigarette out with one shoe. The rubber sole had started to peel away, leaving a jagged scar.
Liam pulled his collar up tighter to fight against the wind. It was his lucky Boston Red Sox jacket which had appeared at the foot of his bed. The jacket had been patched plenty of times over the years. It'd hung on him then, big enough to grow into, ma said. She swore it wasn't her with a little smile.
Maybe it as from ghosts. Plenty of those around here.
(He'd finally grown into his jacket at twenty-two.)
"There's another option, you know."
Liam looked up eagerly. "Yeah? You hear anythin'? I've been canvassin' around and nothin'. Well, nothin' I wanna do, anyways. Guess I could work the paper route again, but it don't pay worth shit. At least I'd be outside and not dyin' from boredom."
"Not so fuckin' loud. Listen, it's simple, and fuckin' foolproof. Even a fuckin' idiot like you could do it," he said.
"Fuck off, I lasted in school way longer than you did," Liam said. "I didn't drop out until high school. Try and top that, asshole. You dropped out in middle school, fucker."
"Yeah, you spent it gettin' F's and flirtin' with girls who wouldn't even look your way, like the fucker you are. You yourself said it's all a waste of time anyways. Ain't like any of us is goin' to Harvard. Or you still chasin' rainbows, like wantin' to be a pro baseball player or win the Olympics and also be a pro boxer, oh and maybe a race car driver too?"
"One day, I'll be on TV, and I'll put up a middle finger just for you, O'Shea."
"Sure you will, Liam. Sure you will." O'Shea laughed and shook his head. "Fuckin' daydreamer. You think you gonna be like Tony C. From the North Shore? Like any gal would pay 500 dollars to get a date with you."
"One day, I'm gonna be so fuckin' rich you won't believe it. Maybe I'll send you a hundred then, because by then, I'll be so rich, I'd use hundreds to wipe my ass with, because at that level a hundred is nothin'."
"Why wait for someday? I got tips on a new gig."
"New tips? You been runnin' with the boys? You know that'll just get you a pair of iron shoes and a good view of the ocean floor the minute you ain't useful anymore. And that's even if you survive that long."
O'Shea glanced over his shoulder, and pulled his coat collar up. It was flannel, and had been ripped and mended many times, until it was covered in patches.
"Listen, shut your yap already. I didn't call you here to pay tiddlywinks. I got wind of a job and even a complete fuckin' moron could pull this. All you gotta do is run. Even someone like you could pull off somethin' like this."
Liam leaned in. "I'm listenin'."
O'Shea nodded. "Those idiot English bring in trucks, and leave 'em wide open and ripe for the pickin'. It's like they want somebody to swipe from them. No guards, no nothin'. All you need is somebody fast enough to run in and tailgate it. Sweep in, grab some packs of cigs, or whatever else they got there, and then head out. Then you can sell it on the streets. See, it's fuckin' easy. And the most important part: also to keep your friggin' mouth shut about it and not brag to try and impress girls."
Liam scrunched up his nose. "Ma don't want me bein' one of the boys," Liam said.
"Oh, you gonna go and cry to your ma? Maybe she'll change your piss-soaked diapers while you're at it, you fuckin' coward--"
O'Shea didn't even get to finish what he was saying when Liam struck him, close fisted.
"Don't you ever say a bad word about my ma I'll beat you bloody until you need diapers, you stupid fuck."
O'Shea rubbed at his mouth. Blood leaked from his lips. "Hope you can go as fast as your mouth runs. Anyways, you stupid fucker, this ain't no mafia run. It's just you and me. If you ain't got a middleman, you don't gotta take a cut."
Like plenty of tussles in Southie, they didn't last long. Anyone here didn't call the cops if they had a problem. A fist to the face, a bat, or a gun would do. People here settled their issues on their own.
Liam toyed with the wraps around his fingers. What he wanted to do was a boxing career. He could be the next Cinderella Man, just with a better name. But every time he tried, they told him he was too scrawny, and to come back when he had some meat on his bones. He'd started working on his stance, but the damned boxing club beneath the bar wouldn't take him. Too scrawny, they said. Still, he kept 'em, just so he could flirt with the local girls and tell them that one day, he'd be raking in the dough as a boxer. He already started dubbing himself a 'trainee' just to try and make it more legit like.
Except, Irish Catholic girls saw through everything and never gave an inch. Their only sin was cigarettes, meat snuck after Friday and their damn dirty mouths. But, forget a kiss, those girls barely would give him the time of day.
Well, technically, Liam had a lot of dreams. Superhero, Olympic runner, and Hollywood superstar, preferably all at once. Champion boxer just happened to be the only one of these which was actually achievable. The boxing club was right next to the Shamrock bar, run by old O'Malley. Every since Muhammad Ali whooped Sonny Liston's ass, Liam had been obsessed. During his night runs he'd go down to the docks and practice his stance and yell out to the sea I am the greatest! The greatest that ever would and ever would be! and punch at the air, like he was winning a champion match. Every step he'd repeat in it his mind I am the greatest, I am greatest, I am the greatest as his feet his the pavement and the waves crashed upon the dock.
Except last time he did that, somebody ratted him out to the priests and he had to go to confession for pride.
Nobody ratted in Southie, except to the priests. Never tell a cop, but if he so much as said 'fuck' near his super devoted neighbors, he'd damn well be sent to that box to tell the priest all the ways he fucked up this time.
If he wasn't running with the boys, working his way up the mob, then technically he wasn't breaking the rules. Besides, he needed to make enough money to keep ma for when the draft man came for his family. They weren't like those rich fucks who could get a pass because they were studying away Harvard.
"What take we talkin'?" Liam said quickly.
"Fifty-fifty."
"Why fifty-fifty if I'm the one doin' all the work?"
"You ain't gonna be doin' all the work. I came up with the plan, and I'll be the one doin' the fencin', too. It'll be easy money--as long as you can keep your damn mouth shut. That'd be the hardest part, Liam 'Irish Whispers' Dempsey."
"Fuck off, O'Shea," he muttered.
His Ma always told him sweetie, you didn't just get the gift of gab, you got the whole damn gold medal. His brothers were stronger, they'd push him out of the way, but if he could yell, then he had a stake in the fight, even if he didn't throw the last punch, he'd be damn sure that he got the last word.
For years, his oldest brother had him convinced that his picture was right there in the dictionary under Irish Whispers. He'd fibbed it up, saying that he was in the dictionary under awesome. Later on, he found that the joke was on him, Irish Whispers wasn't even in the dictionary. But everybody knew what it meant: it meant he couldn't keep his fucking mouth shut.
(Technically, it meant somebody drunk and letting out all the secret, but Liam didn't even need to get drunk to go on like that. Just have a pretty girl to impress and he'd blab away every last secret he knew.)
It was a pretty useless book, anyways, full of big stupid hard words that nobody even used, not even the eggheads who actually studied. Liam had pulled the book out to learn some big words to impress girls, and maybe some really good swear words.
He'd managed to find some dirty words, laugh at them and promptly gotten distracted.
Well, not totally useless. He used the big book to bean a chucklenut who thought he'd be taking his sandwich. About knocked the asshole to the pavement.
It didn't take him long to learn that a loud mouth could be as effective as a quick punch. He could wear people down, and make damn sure they remembered him. His teacher said words had power. It was about the only thing he took in before he ditched the place entirely, with all that dumb stuff he'd never even use, with all those assholes who'd laugh at him when he brought in F's.
His ma would pitch a fit if she found out. He'd tried, really. But there weren't any schools left that hadn't expelled him, and like hell was he ever getting into some rich fuck school. But, Liam was street smart, and that was all he needed.
That, and money. If the boxing club wouldn't have him, he'd find another way to pay up and make sure that his family always had enough to eat.
"You goin' to be a little bitch, like you were when you got your Southie dots?" O'Shea said.
Liam pulled at his wraps, enough to show the four black dots, arranged like a clover, all on his middle finger.
So I can tell them fuck you, straight from Southie. He screamed and sobbed the whole way. Ralph down the street hadn't even cracked a grimace, but he already suspected the guy had to be a robot.
"You screamed like a little bitch, Liam," O'Shea said. He shook his head, and put the needle over the flame again until it blackened. "No surprise, considerin' it's you."
"Yeah, fuckin' fuck you," he said. He'd wanted to be big like his brothers, showing off his pride and those three dots which meant so much. Like those dots could bring up every scar, every time they'd stayed stone-faced when the cops actually came.
But here it was.
His ma made her boys wrap up their hands. For sports, she said. But he knew it was just like the times she kept them away from the kids on their street who were said to be one of the boys.
None of them had the heart to refuse her. When it came between their slice of country, and their mother, they'd choose her every time.
"Aight. Just takin' stuff off the back of a car, right?"
Tailgating. It sounded so wholesome. Like some fucking suburban family going to the game. All those lucky bastards who had a dad who came home from work and who ruffled their hair and called them 'champ.'
All Liam had was that time when he was a kid, and was convinced a French ghost. Eventually, he grew up. Sort of like when kids realized Santa didn't exist.
Well, if he got this right, ma wouldn't have to worry about anything ever again.
"Aight, I'm in. When we doin' this?"
"It comes in at five," he said.
"F-five? That's like half an hour away! Probably less now!"
"You chickenshit?"
"Naw, just I thought it would be later, you know. In the comics they plan the heists and it's always some long night after."
"Life ain't a comic book, Liam."
"Yours, maybe," Liam said.
Liam started to stretch, just like he did before every run. He'd had this teacher who'd been convinced he could've won them gold medals, and taught Liam all he knew. Mr. Otis had really believed in him, but Liam couldn't stop getting in fights and eventually the suspensions piled up.
Liam caught his breath. He tapped his arm to remind himself who he did this for, who he lived and breathed for. Every boy in the family had gotten a little bit of her tattooed on them. The Dempsey boys didn't just love their mother, they revered her above everything. They lived and died for her. Women came and went, and the one rule was never put some girl above Ma.
Ma written in a heart, right on the bicep. Liam was the only one who hadn't taken the leap to prove he really did love ma, even if all he did was make her cry with the way he dropped out of school and was hurdling down straight to be one of the boys, or in a gang.
It'd feel like she was watching him, so he pretended like he didn't have the cash yet.
It'll be easy. O'Shea is gonna distract them, and I'll just rush out. Nobody has to know, especially not ma.
He had to remind himself who he was doing this all for.
*
Liam tried to steady his breath from the side of the road. They were out of the more rotted side of Southie, to a place that wasn't quite as decrepit. A big truck was in front of O'Malleys.
An older guy slowly got out of the truck. He must've had a back injury, with the way he was limping. He wore a pair of work overalls with a name Liam couldn't read embroidered on the chest.
He unlocked the back, then touched to his front pocket. He glanced down, found the pocket completely empty, and let out a string of curse words. The man headed into O'Malleys.
Liam slowly came up to the back of the truck. The tailgate looked like it'd been smashed into at some point, rear ended by some careless driver and never fixed. He'd left the end of his truck unlocked, just like O'Shea had said. Liam took a sharp intake of breath and grabbed a few cartons of cigarettes before whatever angel on his shoulder could catch up with him and bring some sense into him. He shoved them in a big black bag and took off down the street.
Ma always said he kept running too fast for his guardian angel, and one of these days it was gonna come and bite him in the ass. Liam just hoped it wasn't today.
Running felt like flying, or the closest to flying he could ever get. He wasn't as strong as some of his brothers, or the boys down by the dock. But damn, he could fucking outrun all of them. And if those slow chucklefucks couldn't hit him, it didn't matter how much
But, Running wasn't the problem. It was trying to figure out where to keep the boxes. The bag kept slapping against his back. And what the hell was he supposed to say? "just playin' Santa? Yeah, I know Christmas is months away. I had to get my practice in.
The police never came to Southie if they could help it. It made the sound of sirens deafening, and enough to keep everyone off the streets. Of course, even if they did bring somebody in, they wouldn't talk. There were rules of Southie: You take care of your own, you got an issue, you solve it with your fists and don't bring in the cops, and you never, ever rat somebody out.
Liam kept running past the sound of sirens. His lungs ached, his muscles burned, but he kept pushing himself forward. The haul--a bunch of cigarettes cartons--began to fall. He could see this all falling apart before his eyes.
It was supposed to be all so easy. A way out. Somehow, the Dempsey boys had all been missed by the draft, even though none of them were Harvard fucks. But, eventually they couldn't stop cheating death. One day, it'd come for them. In a government car as Uncle Sam came to claim his own, or a mob enforcer.
But he hadn't lived this long because he fucking gave up. He got the bag again, but his triumph was cut off by a sharp pain in his side. His shirt was wet. Red seeped through his shirt, all the way to his coat.
Gunshots weren't foreign in Southie, but usually, they took it out with bats and fists. Guns weren't as personal as taking a baseball bat to some chucklefuck's head.
The sirens rang in his ears. No cops came to Southie if they couldn't help it. But this time, some had.
Another crack, and the pain hit him harder than anything he'd ever felt, anything he could imagine. He slammed against the pavement, dizzy and dry-mouthed. Cartons scattered, and little white cigarettes fell across the pavement, now stained red.
The sirens got louder and louder, until he couldn't hear anything, not even the sound of his heartbeat thundering in his ears.
*
By the time he could get on a plane and be there, Liam had already been in the hospital for days, and was now discharged back into jail. Too soon, Spy thought. Much too soon.
Her eyes were tear stained. She'd barely stopped crying the whole time he was there--and had surely shed more tears before, ones he had never seen.
"You're finally here...."
"My apologies, ma amour."
"You're a hard man to get ahold of, you know?"
"All a part of my job," he said.
"Liam is--" she choked back a sob. "I've never asked much of you, but please don't let him stay there. He ain't made for prison. He's always relied on his brothers to keep him safe. He's just so...small. He was so damned stupid. I told him to not go be one of the boys, but here he was, robbin' a truck."
"I will take care of it. Do not worry about such things."
"No, don't you go breakin' him out. I don't want to lose both of you."
"Now, ma chérie, I would not perish so easily," he said.
"It ain't you I'm worried about in that situation. Liam wouldn't last in hidin'. You know how he is. He'd go stir-crazy and do somethin' foolish. It don't matter, he would. He ain't no good at keepin' quiet. Or followin' orders. Mother Mary of God, I hope his wildness doesn't get him killed. I tried, I really...he reminds me so much of Finny. His smile, the way he laughs...and that wild streak. I can't keep him in school or make him be good. I guess, no wonder. We're all a little bad here in Southie."
She shook her head.
"I really had hope when he got that scholarship. Thought he could get away. But he got thrown out, and now he keeps gettin' into trouble. Every day I'm prayin' he don't go and be one of the boys, because I just know they'd love to get one of my boys. And Liam's so easy to flattery. He's such a dreamer."
He pulled her close, and she gratefully rested her head against his chest.
"There's got to be another way. It don't matter what you do. He was caught red-handed with these goods. Such a stupid scheme...I can't believe he'd pull such a stunt. No, I can believe it all too well."
"Then, you wish me to make a deal with the devil for his freedom?"
She met his gaze with red-rimmed eyes. "If that's what it takes, then so be it. I already lost my brother, Finny and Jack. I can't lose a son too. Especially not...Liam."
" Ma chérie, I will check on him tonight. I won't let them hurt him," Spy said.
"I won't know comfort until he's out of jail for good. But, I fear this is just a sign of things to come. He's gonna be in and out of prison the way he's goin'. I'm afraid he's gonna die in there before he even gets sentenced.. He's such a fighter. And he's got no sense. He'll go right up to the biggest guy around and challenge him. And this time, his brothers can't save him."
He let out a sigh. Liam was reckless beyond measure. He should've known something like this would happen eventually. "I will fix this."
"What? You gonna call on a higher power? Because we'd need a miracle at this rate."
"More a lower power. I will ask my boss for help."
"Your boss? You ain't ever talked a about him."
"Her, and it is for the best, ma amour.."
She gave him a searching glance. "Her? Do I have to worry about her stealin' you away?"
He chuckled. "My boss is a woman so cruel and merciless that I am surprised she hasn't taken over hell. She is the type of woman the Greeks would've made myths about, and probably comes from that era, too. She certainly inspired legends."
"Oh, so I only gotta worry about her stealin' your soul, not your heart."
"A man like me doesn't have a soul to take," he said.
"Could've fooled me," she said softly.
He kissed the top of her head. "You'll see, I'll fix this all."
He'd had a thousand little touches on their lives. Presents to Liam, flowers left on her windowsill, and even more, he'd ensured that the government 'lost' the names of the Dempsey boys, that none of them would get drafted.
What he didn't say was even if Liam got out with his life, things wouldn't be the same. No one escaped the Administrator, not with their life, not with their souls.
*
He donned the guard's suit, and once again, took on the face of Bostonian. The accent was thick and bitter in his mouth, but he'd watched his family long enough to mimic it.
In the end, he knew that Colleen was right. He could pull Liam into the dark, burn off his fingertips and let him be a no-name man like himself. But he would never survive. He was too loud-mouthed, too vivacious and kinetic. Stealth didn't befit him.
Spy stood at the door. Liam was hunched over. He had a bloodied nose, and a black eye. Had he truly resisted arrest, or had he tried to fight every prisoner in there?
Wouldn't that be like him? What wouldn't he fight in the end. Spy shook his head. He needed to act quickly. At the rate Liam was going, he'd be dead before sundown.
"What the hell you lookin' at?"
"An idiot loud bird caught in a little cage," Spy said.
"Why don't you come closer and tell me that to my face, huh tough guy?" Liam rose up, even as dizzy as he was and lurched forward. He rattled at the bars. "C'mere and say that, you fuckin' pig!"
"Be quiet, you fool--"
But the door down the hall slammed. More were already coming.
What lies could he craft to say their son was all right?
*
He chose a dark corner of South Boston, broken down and abandoned when the buildings had been condemned. Broken glass crunched under his feet as he found an awning to duck under to find solace from the cold. At least in this side of town, no one listened, lest they be the next victims of whatever mafia or mob ruled that particular street. The video phone flickered to life, and a familiar face came across the screen.
Spy did not bother with greetings. Miss Pauling rarely had the time, anyways.
"I need a favor," he said in a low voice.
"Oh? What? Do you need your pay stubs?" Miss Pauling looked up from her clipboard.
She'd grown into an enigmatic woman. She had all the threatening appearances of a matronly librarian, but Spy knew better. Miss Pauling was at heart, a siren in oversized glasses, with a thousand ways to kill a person hidden away in her high-buttoned purple dress.
He pulled out a picture of Liam from last year up to the video phone. In it, Liam was laughing at someone unseen. For just a minute, he saw a hint of something beyond that brutal woman who was so much smaller than them all, and yet held them in such a stranglehold. She had grown up so fast. By twelve had become quite a proficient killer. By all means, the Administrator had destroyed any innocence and kindness that she had ever had.
Through it all, not all of any camaraderie between them was gone. Even he was surprised at this.
Yet, Miss Pauling had been a quiet child, but as she grew, she got a certain whimsical nature. Spy couldn't tell if it was a wounded doe ploy, or if she truly had found some happiness in the bloody routine of her life.
But, he knew that she still had old laminated pictures of his son tucked away. He knew that she'd stolen many of his pictures, but as she grew older, she became better at hiding her tracks. He still saw the signs. A slight shift in his beloved photos, a fingerprint she forgot to smudge away.
Just the look that crossed her face when she saw them told him as much.
Whatever her plans were, she still held to this--fascination about Liam. At first it had been the child who had nothing but death and drudgery in her life reaching out for some semblance of warmth. Now, he was not sure of her motives.
"Something happened to him...?" Her voice was high suddenly, on edge. She cleared her throat. "I mean, that is his name, right?"
"You need not pretend. We both know that you know his name as well as I. He was caught robbing a truck. Shot in the back, taken to the hospital, and now he is in jail."
"That's awful," she said. "Though not unexpected, I suppose."
"No, I suppose not. The draft has caused many men to do quite wild things. And even then, it is to be expected in our line of work."
How strange to think of Liam as a man, and not the boy he sang lullabies to.
Her gaze fixated on the picture he still held up.
"He looks so happy in that picture. Do you think he really is?" she said.
He'd watched through windows, sat in corners, the family ghost. And for every smile, every bit of laughter he got to listen in on, there were family pictures with a startling emptiness at one edge. The place he should've been.
And perhaps, she too had been watching his little family. At first he had thought it a little whim she would toss aside. But she kept the photos in her desk, always near.
He she come closer to him, and stayed in the shadows?
"He was, like anyone else, despite the lack of a father in his life," he said.
"Like anyone..." she said softly. Her lips pursed for a moment, before she put the picture into a locked part of her desk.
"Right, I can't be chatting away when he's in prison... What do you need? Sealed records? A fake identity for him?"
"I need you to make this go away. I need you to get him out. He's already gotten in fights in there. I'm afraid he won't last the night."
"Hmm, that's a lot to ask, especially all at once..."
"I haven't any choice. I could break him out, but he'd spend the rest of his life on the run. I need someone higher, someone who can walk and pull paperwork to demand his immediate release."
"I can do it In fact..." she cleared her throat. "I'll do the job myself. To make sure it's well done. I wouldn't just trust this to some low-grade mercenary who probably would have to be killed before the night was through for unsatisfactory conduct. You know you'll owe me big for this, don't you? You understand that, right? If you want to back out now, this is the time."
"Naturally. Name your cost, as long as it not any of my family's lives. That would be a step too far," he said.
"I'll take an IOU," she said.
He'd signed his life away once to the Voice, and now he'd sold what little left of his soul to Miss Pauling as well. As Miss Pauling grew, he saw a marked similarity in their features. The dark hair, the brutality. Even a shape of her face, though age had sharpened the Voice's features. Whereas the Voice wore her cruelty openly, like the latest fashion, Miss Pauling hid it beneath smiles and a hard-working nature.
If the Voice was a gun at the neck, then Miss Pauling was surely a stab to the back. Unexpected to many of her victims, who barely had a chance to connect the woman who looked at home in a library, and the weapon that would be their demise.
"You understand what's going to happen, right? The Administrator isn't just going to give this away for free. The only way I could manage this is if I hire him on. He'll be working beside you," she said.
"Miss Pauling...I trust you'll be discreet about these things. He's spent years thinking his father was dead."
"Ah, I see. Then..." Just as she had a long time ago, she mimicked zipping her lips and throwing away the key. "I'll keep your secret."
Time remained whether she would keep that promise. Still, at least Liam would live. At least that.
He'd come face to face with his son, now a grown man, and practically a stranger. He had lived at the edges, played the part of a ghost who told him facts and figures. Now, he would have to be so much more for Liam.
"Isn't this something you have to consider as well?"
"Me? It's my job to hire...and many, many other things. The Administrator would probably be happy to find a decent new Mercenary. Er, happy might be too strong a word."
"Pleased," he said.
Of course, The Voice would love nothing more than another way to pin him down, like a butterfly caught in a collection, struggling against inevitable death.
"Right," she said. "Pleased."
She cleared her throat. "It will be nothing...super easy for me..really." She forced a smile, but he'd known her long enough to tell the strangeness of her emotions. It was not quite unease, something more nervous, more secret.
Like a photo stolen away and laminated, hidden away in a pocket and never spoken of, yet covered with fingerprints and brought out to the light quite often.
"Good luck, then," he said.
As the call ended--Miss Pauling rarely bothered with many pleasantries, outside of a some company mandated ones, Spy lit up a cigarette in the night.
Spy had signed away his son, all to save his life. Now Liam would know this untold pain, the constant battle, the feeling of purgatory, of death and then surging back from death into life.
So be it, he thought.
*
That night he donned a guard's uniform again. He stayed awake all night on the other side, his hand kept close to his knife. No one would lay a finger upon Liam. If any tried, he'd add their bodies to the thousands others he'd killed.
I owe you so much more, my little one, my son.
Series: TF2
Character/pairing: Scout, Scoutma, Miss Pauling, Spy, (Spy/Scoutma)
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 6,850
Author's note:
Part of a multichapter work called "Loving Ghosts."
Other chapters: After I'm Wild Again, Beguiled Again, Playing House. Did You Have to Let It Linger? and Haunted and, before Last Call, Trace The Ghost Family
And yes, dyslexic and ADHD!Scout.
1968
For Sarah.
There were always people saying Southie used to be peaceful, but somehow they forgot about the Winter Hill gang, or that gang wars had always been on this side of town. People around here kept bats close, but not only for baseball. Plenty of people in Southie had the kind of bat with twisted metal nails out, which sure wasn't the type anyone would hit a home run with. Unless it was a home run to the skull.
Southie wasn't a place you went to the cops. Nothing was worse than ratting someone out. You had a problem with someone, you solved it with your fists, like men. And sure, all the ladies around here had guns in their purses. Anybody who tried some shit would get a face full of lead.
Liam had the toughest brothers in the whole city. They were a gang of their own, the Dempseys. And they answered to nobody but God and Ma, and not always in that order, either.
His brothers were all built tough. Barrel chested, dark haired and stocky. Liam was different from them. Taller, thinner, and a hell of a lot blonder. Most fights, he'd never even get to throw a single punch, because with brothers as tough as that, it'd all be over before he even got there.
That's what you get for bein' the runt, pipsqueak, Michael would say. And ruffle up his hair, in a way Liam hated.
But, Liam had a hidden ace up his sleeve. Not literally--according to his brothers, he was literally the worst Poker player on earth. He could never keep his emotions pushed down enough. When he got a good hand, he'd end up bursting into a big grin, and a bad hand would leave him saying words that would have ma saying she'd have to wash his mouth out with soap.
He could run. Real fast, Olympics fast. He'd almost gotten somewhere with that, on the track team. He'd been real popular and almost gotten a real scholarship. Except, someone like him couldn't stop fighting and got himself kicked out.
Ma was still real sore about that, considering he would've been the first of them to go on to college. Except, Liam knew he would've just failed out. Every time the nuns would get to talking, his mind would go all the places he could be instead of here. Training, running, a thousand places at once. He couldn't keep still, couldn't keep his mind in place, and the words kept moving, just like his mind.
He'd tried to speak up and tell them, he wasn't a dummy, the words just kept getting tangled until they were hard to take, but all he'd gotten was slapped on the wrist and laughed at.
Liam learned fast that if something was wrong, he had to keep his mouth shut, because nobody cared if he couldn't sit still. Nobody believed him when he told them about how the words would get all messed up--they'd just call him a dumbass.
And maybe he was a dumbass, because nobody else saw words like he did. All of them could read without their legs bouncing. All of them could read, period.
Liam learned fast that this dream of ma's, that he'd go on to be some fancy college grad wasn't gonna happen. Which didn't mean he'd given up. Just because he'd lost that scholarship, he'd find another way.
Liam put on his wraps every day before his morning run. Not only did it keep his grip tight, it helped with the fantasy. He'd punch at the air and practice his stance, for the day when he'd be heavy enough to take up boxing, too.
*
Liam finished out his run. He had a few bits of change in his pocket, enough to buy him a drink to cool off. Nothing much, just what was left from his stint as a paperboy last summer.
He caught sight of O'Shea on the corner of the boarded over shop that used to be there. The windows were broken in, and glass still shone on the cracked concrete. It was easy to catch sight of O'Shea, with his pale skin and hair so red it looked orange close-cropped, like he'd already gotten drafted. And maybe he had. All over Southie boys were going overseas. Many of them came back in coffins, or looking so haunted that they might as well have been in the grave.
There'd been little whispers of maybe they'd sign up before the drafts, but that was before the boys started coming back in caskets, draped in flags. Then, it became even more of a funeral watch. One for the boys who came back, and one for the ones about to go overseas.
All the Mas were tense that their boys would be the next hero, draped in glory.
O'Shea's jeans were ripped, and he wore a plaid jacket full of patches to push back the chill of the day.
He and O'Shea had been classmates for a while, until O'Shea had dropped out. The guy always had some scam or scheme. Usually about two things: making money and flirting with gals. In that, at least, they were alike.
Not that they had much else in common, because O'Shea was taller than him (something which never failed to piss off Liam.) He had a mess of freckles over his nose. He always had to pull his cap down low, because with skin that pale, he'd burn even on a cloudy winter day.
This part of Southie had been rotting away, with closed down buildings and barred doors where stores used to be. Retired or died, nobody came to claim the buildings. At least they had some privacy, Liam supposed.
O'Shea gave him a smirk as Liam got closer.
"Ey, long time no see. I heard you finally dropped out. Bout fuckin' time, I say," O'Shea said.
Liam glanced back over his shoulder. "Not so frickin' loud. Ma's real sore about it. She worked real hard to get me into St. Catherine's, and she's not too happy about me losing that scholarship. Anyways, you're late on the deets. I got thrown out ages ago. Ma's been tryin' to get me to study for the G.E.D thing so I can go to college on my own, though it's hopeless. She just don't want none of us drafted."
"Can't blame a lady for tryin' to keep her family alive, I suppose," O'Shea said.
"Where you been, man? I been askin' around and nobody would talk. You in the clink?"
O'Shea ran his fingers through his mess of curls with annoyance. "Nah, I was out west helpin' with some relatives. Ma thought it would 'straighten me out' after that last time I nearly got caught pickpocketin'. All that happened was I picked up new tricks. So what'd you get thrown out for, fightin' or swearin' or fuckin'? Of course I know it's the first two--you're as pure and virginal as the Holy Mother Mary."
"Fuck off, O'Shea," Liam muttered. "You're goin' to hell with that kinda talk."
"You know I'm right."
"Like you're any better. Catholic girls don't flirt around," Liam said.
"Correction: They don't flirt with you."
"Uh-huh, I don't see any girlfriend with you," Liam said.
"I'm way too young to be tied down like that," O'Shea said.
Liam smirked. "Hey, I'd be happy to be tied down."
"Sure you would."
Liam put his hands in his jeans pockets. One of them had a hole, and he slipped his finger into it.
"I been tryin' to find a job, but ain't nothin' much here. Can't really do that cashier crap, I'd cuss out the customers," Liam said.
"What are you bitchin' about? Your family's got a teamster's union card. A job out by the docks would be yours eventually. You can get decent enough pay there."
Liam gave him an irritated look. "Sure, workin' my ass off as a cog in the system until I die, and barely gettin' by, sounds fuckin' great. But it's either that, or dyin' in the gutter bein' one of the boys, and ma would kill me if I ran with the mob."
Liam shook his head. "I'd rather die young than die old havin' never lived because I spent all my days doin' a job I hated. At least I'd go out with a bang then."
O'Shea tossed aside the last remnants of a cigarette and stubbed it out on the broken concrete. His jacket and jeans were full of cigarette burns where he'd gotten careless.
"You wanna bum a smoke?"
"Nah, man. You know me. I gotta save my lungs for runnin'. That stuff makes me cough and leaves a gross taste in my mouth."
"If it tasted like bubblegum, you'd probably smoke 'em by the carton," O'Shea said. He stubbed the cigarette out with one shoe. The rubber sole had started to peel away, leaving a jagged scar.
Liam pulled his collar up tighter to fight against the wind. It was his lucky Boston Red Sox jacket which had appeared at the foot of his bed. The jacket had been patched plenty of times over the years. It'd hung on him then, big enough to grow into, ma said. She swore it wasn't her with a little smile.
Maybe it as from ghosts. Plenty of those around here.
(He'd finally grown into his jacket at twenty-two.)
"There's another option, you know."
Liam looked up eagerly. "Yeah? You hear anythin'? I've been canvassin' around and nothin'. Well, nothin' I wanna do, anyways. Guess I could work the paper route again, but it don't pay worth shit. At least I'd be outside and not dyin' from boredom."
"Not so fuckin' loud. Listen, it's simple, and fuckin' foolproof. Even a fuckin' idiot like you could do it," he said.
"Fuck off, I lasted in school way longer than you did," Liam said. "I didn't drop out until high school. Try and top that, asshole. You dropped out in middle school, fucker."
"Yeah, you spent it gettin' F's and flirtin' with girls who wouldn't even look your way, like the fucker you are. You yourself said it's all a waste of time anyways. Ain't like any of us is goin' to Harvard. Or you still chasin' rainbows, like wantin' to be a pro baseball player or win the Olympics and also be a pro boxer, oh and maybe a race car driver too?"
"One day, I'll be on TV, and I'll put up a middle finger just for you, O'Shea."
"Sure you will, Liam. Sure you will." O'Shea laughed and shook his head. "Fuckin' daydreamer. You think you gonna be like Tony C. From the North Shore? Like any gal would pay 500 dollars to get a date with you."
"One day, I'm gonna be so fuckin' rich you won't believe it. Maybe I'll send you a hundred then, because by then, I'll be so rich, I'd use hundreds to wipe my ass with, because at that level a hundred is nothin'."
"Why wait for someday? I got tips on a new gig."
"New tips? You been runnin' with the boys? You know that'll just get you a pair of iron shoes and a good view of the ocean floor the minute you ain't useful anymore. And that's even if you survive that long."
O'Shea glanced over his shoulder, and pulled his coat collar up. It was flannel, and had been ripped and mended many times, until it was covered in patches.
"Listen, shut your yap already. I didn't call you here to pay tiddlywinks. I got wind of a job and even a complete fuckin' moron could pull this. All you gotta do is run. Even someone like you could pull off somethin' like this."
Liam leaned in. "I'm listenin'."
O'Shea nodded. "Those idiot English bring in trucks, and leave 'em wide open and ripe for the pickin'. It's like they want somebody to swipe from them. No guards, no nothin'. All you need is somebody fast enough to run in and tailgate it. Sweep in, grab some packs of cigs, or whatever else they got there, and then head out. Then you can sell it on the streets. See, it's fuckin' easy. And the most important part: also to keep your friggin' mouth shut about it and not brag to try and impress girls."
Liam scrunched up his nose. "Ma don't want me bein' one of the boys," Liam said.
"Oh, you gonna go and cry to your ma? Maybe she'll change your piss-soaked diapers while you're at it, you fuckin' coward--"
O'Shea didn't even get to finish what he was saying when Liam struck him, close fisted.
"Don't you ever say a bad word about my ma I'll beat you bloody until you need diapers, you stupid fuck."
O'Shea rubbed at his mouth. Blood leaked from his lips. "Hope you can go as fast as your mouth runs. Anyways, you stupid fucker, this ain't no mafia run. It's just you and me. If you ain't got a middleman, you don't gotta take a cut."
Like plenty of tussles in Southie, they didn't last long. Anyone here didn't call the cops if they had a problem. A fist to the face, a bat, or a gun would do. People here settled their issues on their own.
Liam toyed with the wraps around his fingers. What he wanted to do was a boxing career. He could be the next Cinderella Man, just with a better name. But every time he tried, they told him he was too scrawny, and to come back when he had some meat on his bones. He'd started working on his stance, but the damned boxing club beneath the bar wouldn't take him. Too scrawny, they said. Still, he kept 'em, just so he could flirt with the local girls and tell them that one day, he'd be raking in the dough as a boxer. He already started dubbing himself a 'trainee' just to try and make it more legit like.
Except, Irish Catholic girls saw through everything and never gave an inch. Their only sin was cigarettes, meat snuck after Friday and their damn dirty mouths. But, forget a kiss, those girls barely would give him the time of day.
Well, technically, Liam had a lot of dreams. Superhero, Olympic runner, and Hollywood superstar, preferably all at once. Champion boxer just happened to be the only one of these which was actually achievable. The boxing club was right next to the Shamrock bar, run by old O'Malley. Every since Muhammad Ali whooped Sonny Liston's ass, Liam had been obsessed. During his night runs he'd go down to the docks and practice his stance and yell out to the sea I am the greatest! The greatest that ever would and ever would be! and punch at the air, like he was winning a champion match. Every step he'd repeat in it his mind I am the greatest, I am greatest, I am the greatest as his feet his the pavement and the waves crashed upon the dock.
Except last time he did that, somebody ratted him out to the priests and he had to go to confession for pride.
Nobody ratted in Southie, except to the priests. Never tell a cop, but if he so much as said 'fuck' near his super devoted neighbors, he'd damn well be sent to that box to tell the priest all the ways he fucked up this time.
If he wasn't running with the boys, working his way up the mob, then technically he wasn't breaking the rules. Besides, he needed to make enough money to keep ma for when the draft man came for his family. They weren't like those rich fucks who could get a pass because they were studying away Harvard.
"What take we talkin'?" Liam said quickly.
"Fifty-fifty."
"Why fifty-fifty if I'm the one doin' all the work?"
"You ain't gonna be doin' all the work. I came up with the plan, and I'll be the one doin' the fencin', too. It'll be easy money--as long as you can keep your damn mouth shut. That'd be the hardest part, Liam 'Irish Whispers' Dempsey."
"Fuck off, O'Shea," he muttered.
His Ma always told him sweetie, you didn't just get the gift of gab, you got the whole damn gold medal. His brothers were stronger, they'd push him out of the way, but if he could yell, then he had a stake in the fight, even if he didn't throw the last punch, he'd be damn sure that he got the last word.
For years, his oldest brother had him convinced that his picture was right there in the dictionary under Irish Whispers. He'd fibbed it up, saying that he was in the dictionary under awesome. Later on, he found that the joke was on him, Irish Whispers wasn't even in the dictionary. But everybody knew what it meant: it meant he couldn't keep his fucking mouth shut.
(Technically, it meant somebody drunk and letting out all the secret, but Liam didn't even need to get drunk to go on like that. Just have a pretty girl to impress and he'd blab away every last secret he knew.)
It was a pretty useless book, anyways, full of big stupid hard words that nobody even used, not even the eggheads who actually studied. Liam had pulled the book out to learn some big words to impress girls, and maybe some really good swear words.
He'd managed to find some dirty words, laugh at them and promptly gotten distracted.
Well, not totally useless. He used the big book to bean a chucklenut who thought he'd be taking his sandwich. About knocked the asshole to the pavement.
It didn't take him long to learn that a loud mouth could be as effective as a quick punch. He could wear people down, and make damn sure they remembered him. His teacher said words had power. It was about the only thing he took in before he ditched the place entirely, with all that dumb stuff he'd never even use, with all those assholes who'd laugh at him when he brought in F's.
His ma would pitch a fit if she found out. He'd tried, really. But there weren't any schools left that hadn't expelled him, and like hell was he ever getting into some rich fuck school. But, Liam was street smart, and that was all he needed.
That, and money. If the boxing club wouldn't have him, he'd find another way to pay up and make sure that his family always had enough to eat.
"You goin' to be a little bitch, like you were when you got your Southie dots?" O'Shea said.
Liam pulled at his wraps, enough to show the four black dots, arranged like a clover, all on his middle finger.
So I can tell them fuck you, straight from Southie. He screamed and sobbed the whole way. Ralph down the street hadn't even cracked a grimace, but he already suspected the guy had to be a robot.
"You screamed like a little bitch, Liam," O'Shea said. He shook his head, and put the needle over the flame again until it blackened. "No surprise, considerin' it's you."
"Yeah, fuckin' fuck you," he said. He'd wanted to be big like his brothers, showing off his pride and those three dots which meant so much. Like those dots could bring up every scar, every time they'd stayed stone-faced when the cops actually came.
But here it was.
His ma made her boys wrap up their hands. For sports, she said. But he knew it was just like the times she kept them away from the kids on their street who were said to be one of the boys.
None of them had the heart to refuse her. When it came between their slice of country, and their mother, they'd choose her every time.
"Aight. Just takin' stuff off the back of a car, right?"
Tailgating. It sounded so wholesome. Like some fucking suburban family going to the game. All those lucky bastards who had a dad who came home from work and who ruffled their hair and called them 'champ.'
All Liam had was that time when he was a kid, and was convinced a French ghost. Eventually, he grew up. Sort of like when kids realized Santa didn't exist.
Well, if he got this right, ma wouldn't have to worry about anything ever again.
"Aight, I'm in. When we doin' this?"
"It comes in at five," he said.
"F-five? That's like half an hour away! Probably less now!"
"You chickenshit?"
"Naw, just I thought it would be later, you know. In the comics they plan the heists and it's always some long night after."
"Life ain't a comic book, Liam."
"Yours, maybe," Liam said.
Liam started to stretch, just like he did before every run. He'd had this teacher who'd been convinced he could've won them gold medals, and taught Liam all he knew. Mr. Otis had really believed in him, but Liam couldn't stop getting in fights and eventually the suspensions piled up.
Liam caught his breath. He tapped his arm to remind himself who he did this for, who he lived and breathed for. Every boy in the family had gotten a little bit of her tattooed on them. The Dempsey boys didn't just love their mother, they revered her above everything. They lived and died for her. Women came and went, and the one rule was never put some girl above Ma.
Ma written in a heart, right on the bicep. Liam was the only one who hadn't taken the leap to prove he really did love ma, even if all he did was make her cry with the way he dropped out of school and was hurdling down straight to be one of the boys, or in a gang.
It'd feel like she was watching him, so he pretended like he didn't have the cash yet.
It'll be easy. O'Shea is gonna distract them, and I'll just rush out. Nobody has to know, especially not ma.
He had to remind himself who he was doing this all for.
*
Liam tried to steady his breath from the side of the road. They were out of the more rotted side of Southie, to a place that wasn't quite as decrepit. A big truck was in front of O'Malleys.
An older guy slowly got out of the truck. He must've had a back injury, with the way he was limping. He wore a pair of work overalls with a name Liam couldn't read embroidered on the chest.
He unlocked the back, then touched to his front pocket. He glanced down, found the pocket completely empty, and let out a string of curse words. The man headed into O'Malleys.
Liam slowly came up to the back of the truck. The tailgate looked like it'd been smashed into at some point, rear ended by some careless driver and never fixed. He'd left the end of his truck unlocked, just like O'Shea had said. Liam took a sharp intake of breath and grabbed a few cartons of cigarettes before whatever angel on his shoulder could catch up with him and bring some sense into him. He shoved them in a big black bag and took off down the street.
Ma always said he kept running too fast for his guardian angel, and one of these days it was gonna come and bite him in the ass. Liam just hoped it wasn't today.
Running felt like flying, or the closest to flying he could ever get. He wasn't as strong as some of his brothers, or the boys down by the dock. But damn, he could fucking outrun all of them. And if those slow chucklefucks couldn't hit him, it didn't matter how much
But, Running wasn't the problem. It was trying to figure out where to keep the boxes. The bag kept slapping against his back. And what the hell was he supposed to say? "just playin' Santa? Yeah, I know Christmas is months away. I had to get my practice in.
The police never came to Southie if they could help it. It made the sound of sirens deafening, and enough to keep everyone off the streets. Of course, even if they did bring somebody in, they wouldn't talk. There were rules of Southie: You take care of your own, you got an issue, you solve it with your fists and don't bring in the cops, and you never, ever rat somebody out.
Liam kept running past the sound of sirens. His lungs ached, his muscles burned, but he kept pushing himself forward. The haul--a bunch of cigarettes cartons--began to fall. He could see this all falling apart before his eyes.
It was supposed to be all so easy. A way out. Somehow, the Dempsey boys had all been missed by the draft, even though none of them were Harvard fucks. But, eventually they couldn't stop cheating death. One day, it'd come for them. In a government car as Uncle Sam came to claim his own, or a mob enforcer.
But he hadn't lived this long because he fucking gave up. He got the bag again, but his triumph was cut off by a sharp pain in his side. His shirt was wet. Red seeped through his shirt, all the way to his coat.
Gunshots weren't foreign in Southie, but usually, they took it out with bats and fists. Guns weren't as personal as taking a baseball bat to some chucklefuck's head.
The sirens rang in his ears. No cops came to Southie if they couldn't help it. But this time, some had.
Another crack, and the pain hit him harder than anything he'd ever felt, anything he could imagine. He slammed against the pavement, dizzy and dry-mouthed. Cartons scattered, and little white cigarettes fell across the pavement, now stained red.
The sirens got louder and louder, until he couldn't hear anything, not even the sound of his heartbeat thundering in his ears.
*
By the time he could get on a plane and be there, Liam had already been in the hospital for days, and was now discharged back into jail. Too soon, Spy thought. Much too soon.
Her eyes were tear stained. She'd barely stopped crying the whole time he was there--and had surely shed more tears before, ones he had never seen.
"You're finally here...."
"My apologies, ma amour."
"You're a hard man to get ahold of, you know?"
"All a part of my job," he said.
"Liam is--" she choked back a sob. "I've never asked much of you, but please don't let him stay there. He ain't made for prison. He's always relied on his brothers to keep him safe. He's just so...small. He was so damned stupid. I told him to not go be one of the boys, but here he was, robbin' a truck."
"I will take care of it. Do not worry about such things."
"No, don't you go breakin' him out. I don't want to lose both of you."
"Now, ma chérie, I would not perish so easily," he said.
"It ain't you I'm worried about in that situation. Liam wouldn't last in hidin'. You know how he is. He'd go stir-crazy and do somethin' foolish. It don't matter, he would. He ain't no good at keepin' quiet. Or followin' orders. Mother Mary of God, I hope his wildness doesn't get him killed. I tried, I really...he reminds me so much of Finny. His smile, the way he laughs...and that wild streak. I can't keep him in school or make him be good. I guess, no wonder. We're all a little bad here in Southie."
She shook her head.
"I really had hope when he got that scholarship. Thought he could get away. But he got thrown out, and now he keeps gettin' into trouble. Every day I'm prayin' he don't go and be one of the boys, because I just know they'd love to get one of my boys. And Liam's so easy to flattery. He's such a dreamer."
He pulled her close, and she gratefully rested her head against his chest.
"There's got to be another way. It don't matter what you do. He was caught red-handed with these goods. Such a stupid scheme...I can't believe he'd pull such a stunt. No, I can believe it all too well."
"Then, you wish me to make a deal with the devil for his freedom?"
She met his gaze with red-rimmed eyes. "If that's what it takes, then so be it. I already lost my brother, Finny and Jack. I can't lose a son too. Especially not...Liam."
" Ma chérie, I will check on him tonight. I won't let them hurt him," Spy said.
"I won't know comfort until he's out of jail for good. But, I fear this is just a sign of things to come. He's gonna be in and out of prison the way he's goin'. I'm afraid he's gonna die in there before he even gets sentenced.. He's such a fighter. And he's got no sense. He'll go right up to the biggest guy around and challenge him. And this time, his brothers can't save him."
He let out a sigh. Liam was reckless beyond measure. He should've known something like this would happen eventually. "I will fix this."
"What? You gonna call on a higher power? Because we'd need a miracle at this rate."
"More a lower power. I will ask my boss for help."
"Your boss? You ain't ever talked a about him."
"Her, and it is for the best, ma amour.."
She gave him a searching glance. "Her? Do I have to worry about her stealin' you away?"
He chuckled. "My boss is a woman so cruel and merciless that I am surprised she hasn't taken over hell. She is the type of woman the Greeks would've made myths about, and probably comes from that era, too. She certainly inspired legends."
"Oh, so I only gotta worry about her stealin' your soul, not your heart."
"A man like me doesn't have a soul to take," he said.
"Could've fooled me," she said softly.
He kissed the top of her head. "You'll see, I'll fix this all."
He'd had a thousand little touches on their lives. Presents to Liam, flowers left on her windowsill, and even more, he'd ensured that the government 'lost' the names of the Dempsey boys, that none of them would get drafted.
What he didn't say was even if Liam got out with his life, things wouldn't be the same. No one escaped the Administrator, not with their life, not with their souls.
*
He donned the guard's suit, and once again, took on the face of Bostonian. The accent was thick and bitter in his mouth, but he'd watched his family long enough to mimic it.
In the end, he knew that Colleen was right. He could pull Liam into the dark, burn off his fingertips and let him be a no-name man like himself. But he would never survive. He was too loud-mouthed, too vivacious and kinetic. Stealth didn't befit him.
Spy stood at the door. Liam was hunched over. He had a bloodied nose, and a black eye. Had he truly resisted arrest, or had he tried to fight every prisoner in there?
Wouldn't that be like him? What wouldn't he fight in the end. Spy shook his head. He needed to act quickly. At the rate Liam was going, he'd be dead before sundown.
"What the hell you lookin' at?"
"An idiot loud bird caught in a little cage," Spy said.
"Why don't you come closer and tell me that to my face, huh tough guy?" Liam rose up, even as dizzy as he was and lurched forward. He rattled at the bars. "C'mere and say that, you fuckin' pig!"
"Be quiet, you fool--"
But the door down the hall slammed. More were already coming.
What lies could he craft to say their son was all right?
*
He chose a dark corner of South Boston, broken down and abandoned when the buildings had been condemned. Broken glass crunched under his feet as he found an awning to duck under to find solace from the cold. At least in this side of town, no one listened, lest they be the next victims of whatever mafia or mob ruled that particular street. The video phone flickered to life, and a familiar face came across the screen.
Spy did not bother with greetings. Miss Pauling rarely had the time, anyways.
"I need a favor," he said in a low voice.
"Oh? What? Do you need your pay stubs?" Miss Pauling looked up from her clipboard.
She'd grown into an enigmatic woman. She had all the threatening appearances of a matronly librarian, but Spy knew better. Miss Pauling was at heart, a siren in oversized glasses, with a thousand ways to kill a person hidden away in her high-buttoned purple dress.
He pulled out a picture of Liam from last year up to the video phone. In it, Liam was laughing at someone unseen. For just a minute, he saw a hint of something beyond that brutal woman who was so much smaller than them all, and yet held them in such a stranglehold. She had grown up so fast. By twelve had become quite a proficient killer. By all means, the Administrator had destroyed any innocence and kindness that she had ever had.
Through it all, not all of any camaraderie between them was gone. Even he was surprised at this.
Yet, Miss Pauling had been a quiet child, but as she grew, she got a certain whimsical nature. Spy couldn't tell if it was a wounded doe ploy, or if she truly had found some happiness in the bloody routine of her life.
But, he knew that she still had old laminated pictures of his son tucked away. He knew that she'd stolen many of his pictures, but as she grew older, she became better at hiding her tracks. He still saw the signs. A slight shift in his beloved photos, a fingerprint she forgot to smudge away.
Just the look that crossed her face when she saw them told him as much.
Whatever her plans were, she still held to this--fascination about Liam. At first it had been the child who had nothing but death and drudgery in her life reaching out for some semblance of warmth. Now, he was not sure of her motives.
"Something happened to him...?" Her voice was high suddenly, on edge. She cleared her throat. "I mean, that is his name, right?"
"You need not pretend. We both know that you know his name as well as I. He was caught robbing a truck. Shot in the back, taken to the hospital, and now he is in jail."
"That's awful," she said. "Though not unexpected, I suppose."
"No, I suppose not. The draft has caused many men to do quite wild things. And even then, it is to be expected in our line of work."
How strange to think of Liam as a man, and not the boy he sang lullabies to.
Her gaze fixated on the picture he still held up.
"He looks so happy in that picture. Do you think he really is?" she said.
He'd watched through windows, sat in corners, the family ghost. And for every smile, every bit of laughter he got to listen in on, there were family pictures with a startling emptiness at one edge. The place he should've been.
And perhaps, she too had been watching his little family. At first he had thought it a little whim she would toss aside. But she kept the photos in her desk, always near.
He she come closer to him, and stayed in the shadows?
"He was, like anyone else, despite the lack of a father in his life," he said.
"Like anyone..." she said softly. Her lips pursed for a moment, before she put the picture into a locked part of her desk.
"Right, I can't be chatting away when he's in prison... What do you need? Sealed records? A fake identity for him?"
"I need you to make this go away. I need you to get him out. He's already gotten in fights in there. I'm afraid he won't last the night."
"Hmm, that's a lot to ask, especially all at once..."
"I haven't any choice. I could break him out, but he'd spend the rest of his life on the run. I need someone higher, someone who can walk and pull paperwork to demand his immediate release."
"I can do it In fact..." she cleared her throat. "I'll do the job myself. To make sure it's well done. I wouldn't just trust this to some low-grade mercenary who probably would have to be killed before the night was through for unsatisfactory conduct. You know you'll owe me big for this, don't you? You understand that, right? If you want to back out now, this is the time."
"Naturally. Name your cost, as long as it not any of my family's lives. That would be a step too far," he said.
"I'll take an IOU," she said.
He'd signed his life away once to the Voice, and now he'd sold what little left of his soul to Miss Pauling as well. As Miss Pauling grew, he saw a marked similarity in their features. The dark hair, the brutality. Even a shape of her face, though age had sharpened the Voice's features. Whereas the Voice wore her cruelty openly, like the latest fashion, Miss Pauling hid it beneath smiles and a hard-working nature.
If the Voice was a gun at the neck, then Miss Pauling was surely a stab to the back. Unexpected to many of her victims, who barely had a chance to connect the woman who looked at home in a library, and the weapon that would be their demise.
"You understand what's going to happen, right? The Administrator isn't just going to give this away for free. The only way I could manage this is if I hire him on. He'll be working beside you," she said.
"Miss Pauling...I trust you'll be discreet about these things. He's spent years thinking his father was dead."
"Ah, I see. Then..." Just as she had a long time ago, she mimicked zipping her lips and throwing away the key. "I'll keep your secret."
Time remained whether she would keep that promise. Still, at least Liam would live. At least that.
He'd come face to face with his son, now a grown man, and practically a stranger. He had lived at the edges, played the part of a ghost who told him facts and figures. Now, he would have to be so much more for Liam.
"Isn't this something you have to consider as well?"
"Me? It's my job to hire...and many, many other things. The Administrator would probably be happy to find a decent new Mercenary. Er, happy might be too strong a word."
"Pleased," he said.
Of course, The Voice would love nothing more than another way to pin him down, like a butterfly caught in a collection, struggling against inevitable death.
"Right," she said. "Pleased."
She cleared her throat. "It will be nothing...super easy for me..really." She forced a smile, but he'd known her long enough to tell the strangeness of her emotions. It was not quite unease, something more nervous, more secret.
Like a photo stolen away and laminated, hidden away in a pocket and never spoken of, yet covered with fingerprints and brought out to the light quite often.
"Good luck, then," he said.
As the call ended--Miss Pauling rarely bothered with many pleasantries, outside of a some company mandated ones, Spy lit up a cigarette in the night.
Spy had signed away his son, all to save his life. Now Liam would know this untold pain, the constant battle, the feeling of purgatory, of death and then surging back from death into life.
So be it, he thought.
*
That night he donned a guard's uniform again. He stayed awake all night on the other side, his hand kept close to his knife. No one would lay a finger upon Liam. If any tried, he'd add their bodies to the thousands others he'd killed.
I owe you so much more, my little one, my son.
