Book II – Chapter 23: Retiring

Posted On January 16, 2017

The lights in the hallway felt too bright. Ferris was amazed he’d made it to his door, having missed his stop on the train home and then forgotten to select a floor in the elevator. He’d worked late again, trying to focus against the hum of the janitor’s vacuum. There was a lot of catching up to do and it took every ounce of patience in his heart not to blame Demos for it.

It was his fault, though.

Through the door, Stanley had caught the sound of keys and was jumping on the other side.

“Hold on, Stan. I—“

“Oh, you’re home. Finally,” Seamus said the moment the door opened. He was draped on the sofa with a British cooking show illuminating his body in the dark.

“Ah.” Ferris shut the door behind him. “I forgot I have two pets.”

Seamus rolled over, resting his chin on his arms. “I think I’m more of a wife than a pet.”

“Careful, or I’ll demote you to house plant.”

With a sigh, Ferris slumped down next to him, his shirt bunching against the couch. There wasn’t quite enough room for the both of them, yet he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Yeah?” Seamus waved a small, crumpled object in his friend’s face. “Do house plants pay rent?”

Once his eyes focused, Ferris could see that item clutched in Seamus’ hand was paper — a roll of bills. He blinked.

“What’s this?”

“I told you, it’s rent! Take it!”

Ferris took the little wad of money, noting the texture, the printing. It was real. It was actual cash.

“Fuck, I think— I think I’m going to cry.”

“Well, as much as I’d love to see you express an emotion,” Seamus stood, letting out an impressive stretch before working out a few kinks in his neck, “I’ve got a date with a queue.”

Ferris squinted. “Since when have you stood in line for anything?”

“Since Doublecross.” Seamus presented two thumbs up and a showy grin. “New album’s coming out at midnight. Want to come?”

“Told Demos I’d take him out. I’ve never heard of them, anyway.”

“That’s because you’re naff and listen to old dead guys like Choppin’.”

“It’s Sho-pan, you idi—“

“See, I knew you’d correct me — ‘cause you’re naff. These girls are brilliant. And the lead guitar is hot.”

Seamus waved a creased flyer which Ferris promptly ignored.

“Okay, sure,” Ferris said. “Have fun in your line. Don’t push anybody.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it!”

The door shut with a light clack, leaving Ferris in blissful solitude. He slid farther down on the sofa, unrolling the cash to examine in the flickering light of the television. He had to take this moment alone while it lasted. Demos would be arriving at any—

The phone rang.

“Hey, Ghost.” Ferris smiled, only because no one could see.

“What’re you doing?”

“Counting money.”

Demos scoffed. “Did you rob a bank without me?”

“Seamus paid me rent. Kind of.”

“Kind of?”

“It’s fifty bucks.” The bills flicked through his fingers as he tallied to the last one. “How much does he think apartments cost? There’s so many ones here. Is he a stripper, too?”

“Well, stop counting. I’m almost there.”

Ferris glanced at his watch. “How far are—“

There was a knock at the door. He didn’t bother looking, only glaring at his phone. “Is that you, you piece of shit?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, I’m not letting you in.”

“Fine, I’ll just—“ There was a rattle. The lock bumped against the frame, stubborn against its assailant.

Ferris lay his head back on the sofa, enjoying the moment. “You forgot your key.”

“Well, I didn’t think I’d need it,” Demos said. “Just let me in, asshole. I’m cold.”

It was barely autumn. Some of the trees had started to yellow, yet it wasn’t what most people would call ‘cold.’ Of course, Demos was not most people.

“You’re in a hallway. You’re indoors.”

“Ferris!”

Biting back a grin, Ferris headed for the door. Demos was, as expected, hugging his own arms on the other side. His Harrington jacket was bunched between his fingers, a melodramatic display of his discomfort.

“You need to gain some weight.” He stepped aside to let poor soul in. “You don’t have any insulation.”

Demos hooked an arm around Ferris’ waist, rumpling his work clothes worse than the couch had. Ferris could smell the cigarette smoke in his hair as the slight Italian robbed him of his body heat.

“I’ve got you, don’t I?”

“You’ll always have me.” There was a pause, a brief slice of time where the two stood in a semi-comical, semi-genuine embrace. “Except right now, I have to pee.”

Demos rolled his eyes as Ferris slipped away, disappearing into the bathroom.

“Well, hurry up. You promised we’d go shopping and they’re going to close soon.”

“It’s fine,” Ferris called through the door. “We can take my new car.”

#

Once outside, Demos seemed to have forgotten the cold. He stared at the vehicle on the curb, hand over his mouth in thought.

“I thought you said ‘new’ car.”

Ferris ignored the quip, fishing for his keys in his pocket. “Shut up. Yours is even older than this one.”

“Yeah, but mine’s cute.” Demos circled the bumper, running his hand over the hood. “It’s British. I knew it. Seamus got to you, didn’t he?”

Sensing an oncoming storm, Ferris dangled the keys between two fingers.

“Want to take it for a spin?”

“Fine.”

Ferris stared as his friend rounded the car, opening the door with a click and settling inside. He had gotten into the passenger seat.

“I said—“

Demos fastened his seat belt. “Well, don’t just stand there. Let’s go.”

With a slow breath, Ferris closed his eyes. It had been worth a try. He supposed this was how it was meant to be — him, in the driver’s seat, forever cursed to be the Italian’s chauffeur.

Even with an unusual amount of traffic followed by block-circling for a parking spot, they somehow made it to the store before it closed. Soft yellow lights illuminated the window display, reflecting in Demos’ eyes as he gazed at a row of leather bags.

“Look at them.” Demos reached for the glass before stopping himself. “They’re beautiful.”

“You look at bags the same way normal people look at puppies.”

“The black one— the one with the drummed calfskin and cotton twill lining. It’s perfect.”

“Yeah, it also costs more than my computer. You waste too much money.”

Demos narrowed his eyes. “Like you know anything about money.”

“It’s my job to know about money.” Ferris returned the look. “If you buy that I’m going to kill you.”

“No, your job is ruining my life. You’re great at it.”

“Thanks.” He turned back to the shop window, catching the reflections of passersby in the glass. Squares of white sat in a row — newspapers lined up in the kiosk behind them. Ferris almost missed the headlines, but the black, block letters read a familiar name. He glanced over his shoulder, scanning the print once more. There it was, a name he’d heard far too many times over the course of his life — Blakely.

“Huh.”

Demos’ gaze was once more locked on the display. “What?”

“You didn’t tell me Blakely was retiring,” Ferris said.

“Don’t be ridiculous, he’s not retiring.”

“That’s not what the paper says.”

This stole the Ghost’s attention. He turned with a start, eyes locked on the kiosk. There were a half dozen of the newspapers, one after another, all boasting the same, damning headline.

BLAKELY RETIRING AFTER 10 YEARS SERVICE

Demos hurried to the stand, snatching a paper up with both hands. His fingers crumpled the edges as he read the article, his eyes wide and white, darting from one paragraph to another. Blakely, the police chief for the last decade, the man the Giorgettis had blackmailed senseless, who had literally let them get away with murder, was leaving.

Demos hissed in his next breath. “Shit.”

“Well.” Ferris stuffed his hands into his pockets. “So much for shopping.”

#

Though Ferris wasn’t exactly fond of shopping, it was far preferable to the gentleman’s club they had just entered. The Looking Glass was run by the Marianis, who had done everything in their power to fabricate a sense of class. Burgundy drapes hugged the stage and leather-seated booths ran from one end to another. One might have mistaken the establishment for a high-end restaurant, if not for the strutting, mostly-nude stripper bathed in flashing blue lights.

They spotted him at a table against the wall. Blakely was alone, nursing his fourth vodka. His eyes followed the woman on stage, reddened with liquor and age.The club was filled with movement, with music, figures crowding the stage and drifting by on the upper balcony. Blakely, however, was anchored to his seat. He didn’t look over when the two joined him at the table.

Blakely set down his glass. “So, you found me.”

“We have eyes,” Demos said. “You know that.”

“Gino couldn’t bother, could he? Had to send his grandkid.”

“Powerful men don’t take out their own trash, Blakely.”

There was a speaker on the wall above their heads. Ferris could feel the bass permeating every surface, a rhythmic heartbeat drowning out their conversation. A group of men paraded past, hands occupied with bottles and women. Ferris thought back, trying to recall the first time he had heard Blakely’s name. It had been years back, in high school — it was that Japanese restaurant. He’d heard everything in a hushed voice over the table, of the police chief in their pocket, of the tape — the tape of that terrible, unforgivable thing the man had done.

Trash was putting it lightly.

“Fuck you, kid. I’m done.”

Demos’ hands tightened. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Why? Because I knew you’d throw a goddamned fit. I knew you’d try to stop me.”

“You can’t just—“

“Look at me!”  The police chief gestured to his own face, his eyes burning.  “You think this job is easy? Ten fuckin’ years and I’ve aged twenty. My hair’s falling out. My dick’s even worse, I’m lucky if I can get half a hard-on anymore.”

“We had a deal.”

A deal — it was one simple deal that had kept the Giorgettis out of prison, that had shifted the eyes and ears of every cop in the city. There’d been that night, the night Victor’s Lincoln had T-boned a police cruiser. Ferris hadn’t forgotten what the officer had said — he couldn’t, no matter how hard he tried.

‘Chief Blakely sends his deepest apologies.’

“Haven’t I done enough for you?” Blakely said. “What do you want me to do, work until I drop dead? I can’t do this anymore. You want to let out that tape? Knock yourself out.”

Demos swallowed. The strings had been cut — there was no leverage over a man with nothing to lose.

“So who’s next, Blakely? Who’s replacing you?”

The police chief ran a hand over his thinning hair. “I don’t know, that’s your problem now. If you have someone, I can endorse them, but that’s the last fuckin’ thing I’m doing for you.”

Their conversation hadn’t been long, but it was just enough time for the club staff to notice a Giorgetti and his sidekick parked in a booth with the soon-to-be-retired police chief. Ferris could feel eyes shifting in their direction and one of the bartenders was speaking intently on the phone, eyes locked on Demos. Perhaps a Mariani strip club was a poor choice of setting.

Ferris’ hands tightened on the tabletop. “Ghost, I think—“

“We should go,” Demos stood, rebuttoning his suit. “And we’ll take that endorsement.”

Blakely lifted his glass with a scoff. “Great.”

It wasn’t until they reached the parking lot that either spoke again.

“The hell are we going to do now?” Ferris pinched the bridge of his nose. “What if the new guy doesn’t have any dirt on him?”

Demos had already pulled out his phone, scrolling through his contacts. His eyes were bright with intention, as if he had an idea. Of course he had an idea.

He always had an idea.

Demos gave his friend a sideways smile as he held the phone to his ear. “Maybe he won’t have to.”

#

It was strange to be back at St. Basil’s. It had been a long time since they’d stood in the middle school wing. Demos had just arrived to the States, a strange Italian boy whose mother had died, one Ferris couldn’t quite wrap his head around. Now, a decade later, the lockers seemed so small. Ferris felt old just looking at them, but they weren’t there to feel old. They had come for a piano recital.

Half of the auditorium seats were filled, mostly with parents. Demos and Ferris stuck to the back wall, out of sight beneath a cut of shadow. Piano music filled the hall. A boy was playing Moonlight Sonata, the notes sweet and fluttering with nervous pauses here and there. It gave Ferris flashbacks to his early violin recitals, and how terrifying it was to be on stage. His first performance had sounded awful.

An elbow to his side broke Ferris’ line of thought.

“There she is,” Demos said.

“I see her, stop jabbing me.”

Demos jabbed him harder, earning a shoulder-shove in return. “Hey, watch the flowers.”

The girl on stage wore a blue dress to her knees, her hands fisted as she spoke into the microphone.

“Suki Lee, playing Prelude Op. 23 No. 5, by Rachmaninoff.”

She strode to the piano bench. Her hands hovered over the keys, chest rising with a single deep breath. Suki knit her brow, then began to play. Notes broke the silence that had settled over the auditorium, a rising tide of deep, proud chords. Tiny hands flitted from left to right over the keys, fingers dancing over black and white.

Ferris leaned in to his friend, voice soft in his ear. “She’s better than you.”

Demos elbowed him for the third time.

When the song ended, the two slipped out the back door, unseen through the applause.

“She’s not better than me,” Demos said, brushing imaginary lint from his sleeve.

“Were you that good when you were eleven?”

Demos scoffed. “Yes. I could play Rachmaninoff.”

“Oh my God, are you jealous of a kid?”

Ferris got the venomous glare he was expecting and laughed, doubling over at the sight of the small, bitter Italian.

“Uncle Ferris, are you being mean?” came a voice from down the hallway. Suki had just come through the door, her father standing close behind her.

“Never,” Ferris said. “I would never be mean to him.”

“Did you see me play?”

Demos’ frown had swept into a smile faster than Ferris could even blink. “You were amazing. We were standing in the back so—“

“I know.” Suki took the bouquet of lilies he’d offered with both hands. “Because Dad is embarrassed to be seen with you, because you’re shady.”

“Who taught you to say that?”

“I’m in middle school, I can teach myself things! But, um, thanks for helping me practice.”

Demos’ smile softened. “Anytime.”

Suki held the bouquet to her face, taking in the scent of the lilies. “Do you need to talk to Dad? About shady stuff?”

Ferris cleared his throat.

“You go ahead, honey.” Lee bent down to kiss his daughter’s cheek. “You can watch the rest of your friends play.”

The three men stood in silence until she was gone, the auditorium door drifting shut behind her.

“So.” Demos folded his arms. “You’re embarrassed to be seen with us?”

“She said shady,” Lee said. “I never said shady.”

“Well, your kid’s a natural.”

Lee smiled, his chest swelling. “She wants to go to music school.”

“Good. At least one of you two has talent.”

“You’re hilarious, Ghost. So what do you want? I’m kind of in the middle of a proud father moment here.”

Demos gestured to the video recorder Lee had strapped to one hand. “That thing off?”

“You think I’m an idiot? It’s off.”

“We’re sure you’ve heard about Blakely,” Ferris said. “About his retirement.”

“Of course. I was going to ask you about that, actually. I hope you have a plan.”

Demos leaned back against a locker, the metal brushing the back of his suit. Ferris could tell he was thinking. It had been a while since they’d first met Lee, but the man had grown considerably — not in the way a boy grows into a man, taller, stronger. No, it was the way a man grows into a professional. He still had the same lanky, unassuming physique, and the dark circles hadn’t left his eyes. Yet, there was something straighter in the way he stood and an offhanded confidence in his voice, one that had once been an act but was now entirely real.

“You’re the plan, Lee.”

The man squinted back at Demos. “What do you mean, I’m the plan?”

“You’re going to be the next chief of police.”

Lee laughed. It was a hard, instant laugh, a concoction of humor and denial. Ferris could see him go through every stage of grief before stopping just shy of acceptance.

“No.”

Demos frowned. “You haven’t even—“

“I’m an inspector, Ghost. I’m not even a deputy chief, or a— I’m not a chief of anything. Who in their right mind would make me chief of police?”

“The mayor,” Ferris said.

Lee folded his arms, his only defense against their offensive. “Palmisano?”

Demos nodded. “His third term is coming up. He wouldn’t have won the last two without us. Blakely would endorse you, too.”

Lee rubbed the back of his head. “I don’t know, Ghost. I’m too young for this.”

“So he’s too old and you’re too young.” Demos ran his hands over his face. “I don’t have time for this Goldilocks bullshit. Look, you’re incredible at your job. The Layman case — the Good Friday bombing. You ran all of those, didn’t you?”

“Well, yes.”

“You know the pay isn’t bad, either. You could send her to Juilliard.”

“Oh, hell no.” Lee unfolded his arms, knife-handing the Italian. “Don’t you dare try to manipulate me with—“

“I’m just saying, Lee. Will you consider it?”

The man paused, his shoulders resigning, head dropping back as if asking some greater power what he’d done to deserve this. After a moment he glanced through the doors Suki had left through only minutes ago. Piano music continued to drift through the walls, notes stumbling over one another as someone else’s child played the Star Spangled Banner. He inhaled through his nose — a slow, defeated breath under tightly closed eyes.

“Fine. But no promises. This— this would be a big change.”

“You’re ready for it,” Ferris said. “And so is Southport.”

Demos lifted himself from the locker, tapping Ferris’ arm to indicate their departure. “Think about it.”

The two made their way down the hall, leaving the poor man with his thoughts. Ferris had half a mind to lecture his friend about digging right into Lee’s weak spot, but held his tongue. Demos was right.

It would be a shame if she couldn’t go to music school.