Book II – Chapter 28: Traitor

Posted On July 30, 2020

Illustration by Eyugho

“You know in Europe it’s illegal to call this Parmesan?”

Demos was slouched in a diner seat, one hand propping up his chin and the other clutching the offensive cheese shaker.

Ferris sipped his coffee. “You don’t say.”

“Hey.” Demos slapped the green container onto the table, then leaned in. “This is serious. Some made-in-Ohio, cellulose powder bullshit isn’t—“

“Why don’t you open up the sugar packets and complain about those, too? You could make a career out of it.”

Demos glared. The speckled, laminate table stretched between them, its surface topped with coffee cups and unfurled napkins. The booths at the Sparrow Diner hadn’t changed in the last twenty years, and neither had the food.

“I don’t think any of my skills could translate to a normal job,” Demos said. He wasn’t wrong. Until the day there was an opening in the newspaper for a guy who could blow off a running man’s kneecaps at 20 meters, Demos wouldn’t have a lot of options.

“You could be a chef, I guess.” Ferris set the ceramic cup down, then angled the handle to the side. “Or a model.”

Demos struggled to keep the color from reaching his cheeks. He could feel the heat in his face and prayed to God it wasn’t visible. He wondered if Ferris was deliberately trying to embarrass him — it was hard to tell from his expression.

Demos looked down at the table and his fringe slipped past the bridge of his nose. “I’m too short to be a model.”

When there was no reply, Demos became hyper-aware of the hair in his face and tucked it over his ear like a teenage girl. It held in place for a few seconds before slinking back. He cursed under his breath.

“Do you really think—“

Demos would never finish that sentence. A third body joined their table, bumping Ferris to the window so the two could share a booth seat.

“Hassan,” Demos said. The scowl he was harboring behind closed lips was audible in that single word.

“I can’t stay long.” Hassan glanced out the window. “Isn’t this too public?”

Demos folded his arms. “You’re the one that wanted to be indoors.”

Ferris wasn’t being at all subtle about his discomfort. He was leaning away from his new seatmate, his retreat thwarted by the stock-still window. Hassan didn’t seem to notice. The man brushed aside discarded sugar packets, making room for his elbows on the table.

“I was going to tell you, before you abandoned me for that phone call,” Hassan said. “You do whatever your uncle says, sahee?”

Demos leaned back, stretching an arm across the seat. “You would have done what he said too, if you knew what was good for you.”

Hassan’s lips flattened. Demos hadn’t forgotten — Hassan had been explicitly instructed to leave Southport after his first meeting with Victor. He’d stayed, and was now caught up in some portentous Mariani scheme.

“Right, right. You wanted to know how they found out about your demo — the weapon demo for Six Pines.”

Demos straightened in his seat.

“I think you can guess who it was,” Hassan said.

Ferris took a breath, then spoke. “Alonzo.”

Both men turned to look at him. Demos’ expression was particularly bruised, his brow tight over locked eyes. Hassan simply nodded.

“How did you know?” Demos said, his voice only half as strong as it had been a moment ago.

“I didn’t.” Ferris looked down into his coffee cup, watching reflections quiver over the surface. “But he’s a regular at the Looking Glass. He knew about the casino, about the demo — everything.  Back on that recording, when they mentioned ‘Al’ — it wasn’t Aldo, was it? It was Alonzo.”

Hassan gave a helpless shrug. “Yes. He introduced me to the Marianis — that same day, after the docks.”

Any thoughts of faux Parmesan or side careers were long-forgotten. Demos’ hand had a death-grip on his mug, his fingertips reddening with the pressure on the ceramic. Alonzo wasn’t just a pain in the ass anymore. He had shed his role of ‘contentious, bigoted, distant family member’ and had claimed a new title — traitor. He wasn’t just trying to ‘out’ Demos, or embarrass him. Alonzo had been trying to take the Ghost out of the picture — entirely.

Demos swallowed the knot in his throat. “So, Sandro—?”

“Alonzo sent him after you, to the casino. Said he wanted to prove something? I never caught the details. It was you, though — wasn’t it? The reason Sandro never came home.”

Demos didn’t reply. He was too caught up in his thoughts, pieces connecting, words coming together to form a whole picture. What did Alonzo need him out of the way for? What was Alonzo planning on doing?

“Victor needs to know,” Ferris said.

Demos finally looked up, meeting Ferris’ eyes. “He won’t act without proof.”

“I don’t have proof.” Hassan shrugged. “I only overheard it.”

The Italian drew his hand to his mouth, his eyes flickering from one corner of the table to the other. Victor trusted him, but not enough to take out a family member without evidence.

‘Hey Uncle Vic, remember that sex trafficker who you threatened to burn alive if he didn’t leave town? I’ve been hanging out with him! He says Alonzo is a traitor. Crazy, right?’

‘Hey Uncle Vic, Alonzo has repeatedly attempted to expose my sexuality to the entire world. Oh, you didn’t know? Guess what, I’m gay!’

Neither of those journeys would have a happy ending.  Demos had already pissed his uncle off several times in the last few weeks. Approaching him without proof would undoubtedly end with a lot of screaming. The tables would have to turn — now it would be Demos’ turn to prove something. Something in writing — something recorded. Evidence.

“Oh, and one more thing,” Hassan said. “Your doctor — Will Mendoza? Alonzo lured him out.”

Demos’ stare hardened on Hassan’s features.

Hassan looked straight back. “But Aldo killed him.”

“Of course it was Aldo.” Demos was speaking through his teeth. “Of fucking course.”

“Is there any way you could get it on tape?” Ferris said. “Or a photo, or— or anything?”

“Mm, I don’t know. I can try. No promises — I feel as if I’ve already repaid the favor I owe you by coming into this— what is this, a historical landmark?”

Ferris’ gaze flattened. “It’s a diner.”

“Anyhow—“ Hassan tugged back his sleeve, examining the hands on a gold watch. “I’ve already been here too long. I’ll do what I can.”

The man edged himself out of the booth, dusted his chest, and disappeared behind a waitress without another word.

“Bye, I guess,” Ferris said to no one.

Demos was silent, his body burning a ghost-shaped hole into the vinyl booth seat. The corners of his eyes had reddened, his palms twisting against one another between clasped hands.

A thought crossed Demos’ mind. “I could—“

“Murder him, and make it look like an accident?” Ferris said. “I don’t think so.”

Demos narrowed his stare. “How did you—“

“You usually just default to murder.”

The Ghost had no response. It had been worth a shot. Demos and logic did not have a close and personal relationship, but at this moment it was begging him to look for other options. For once, it might be good to listen. This wouldn’t be Demos’ decision.

Demos took in a long breath through his nose. It would have to be a conversation for a later time. He gestured to their waiter for the check, then returned to fiddling with his already-abused coffee mug.

“You know I’m still mad at you,” Demos said. “For hiring Seamus without asking me.”

“Would you have told me ‘no?’”

“I— I just—” Demos took a moment to collect his words.  “I’ve already ruined your life. I don’t want to ruin his, too.”

Ferris’ expression shifted. The cold angle of his brow relented, lips parting with nothing to say.

“Sergio’d better keep his promise,” Demos said. His voice was low, as if he were talking to the coffee cup he was presently accosting and not the man across the table.

“Demos, you haven’t—“

A black check holder slipped onto the table, crinkled receipt corners peeking out from the lip.

“Here you go,” the waiter said. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

The young man gave Demos a long, hovering look before turning back toward the kitchen.

“I got it,” Demos said before his friend could offer to pay. The holder cracked open, revealing a handwritten check with blue, looping pen script.

Ferris tilted his head, trying to get a better angle on the writing. “Why is there a phone number on there?”

Whatever was written on the check, it certainly looked like a seven-digit phone number. It was enclosed in a heart.

Demos shrugged. “It happens.”

It took Ferris a moment to calculate what ‘it’ was and what exactly was ‘happening’ here. It seemed that whatever had just occurred was a phenomenon Ferris had not yet experienced — and probably never would. His gaze followed the receipt-slash-love-note as Demos folded it, skinny fingers sliding it into his pocket. Ferris looked away.

A handful of bills were tucked between the salt and pepper shakers, an apology for the scattered sugar packets and coffee smudges they had left behind. The cold air outside hit them like a wall, numbing fingers and cheeks within seconds.

The street was covered in noise — tires on slush, the hum of pedestrians and distant car horns. The sound of crumpling paper was barely loud enough to catch Ferris’ attention. He looked just in time to see Demos cast the balled-up diner check into a curbside trash can.

Ferris shot him a look.

“What?” Demos stuffed both hands into his coat pockets. “I didn’t want to toss it in front of him. I’m not an asshole.”

“Sorry, but—“ Ferris’ eyes went back to the sidewalk, his accusatory stare easing into a smile. “You really are.”

#

There was only one more stop Ferris had to make that day. It had been months since he’d last seen the clinic that Will used to run. That afternoon had gone by so quickly — the gunshot, the little spots of blood on the floor. Demos’ voice was muddy in his memory.

‘I like you the way you are.’

What a strange thing to say.

Ferris was waiting in the alley, wringing his hands together against the cold. The leather folio he’d brought was pinched between his arm and his body, its contents tucked neatly inside. It was rare that he went on dubious errands like this without his friend, but Demos seemed to annoy Nadia. Demos seemed to annoy a lot of people. There was someone much better suited for this task, and that someone was about to be late.

Just as Ferris glanced at his phone for the time, a small black sports car pulled up along the curb. The engine cut and a car door opened, followed by the sound of heels on pavement.

He gave her a nod as she approached the back door. “Gina.”

She returned the nod, saying nothing as she let herself into the dingy building. Ferris caught the door before it could shut behind her, following two steps behind.

He hadn’t brought her along for the fun of it. Though she wasn’t officially ingrained in the family business, Gina excelled at collecting information and using it to their advantage. She did not excel in common courtesies, such as holding doors open for other people.

A small family had taken up residence in the waiting area — an elderly woman and at least two generations of children. They spoke in hushed Portuguese, paying no mind to the two who had just entered. That was right — the clinic had other patients. Though the Giorgettis had funded the real estate, they were by no means injured often enough to keep an entire business running. Anyone who needed to see a doctor without pesky regulations, insurance, and paperwork might eventually find themselves here.

It was a moment before Nadia emerged from a back room, drying her hands with a small towel.

“Can I help—“ Her eyes fell on Ferris. “Oh. It’s you.”

“It’s me.”

She glanced over at the woman beside him. “And who is this?”

Gina offered her hand. “Gina. We’d like to talk, if you have a moment.”

Oh — so she did have common courtesy. She just didn’t waste it on Ferris. Nadia eyed the newcomer for a moment before taking the offered hand. Their handshake was fixed with intention, as if the two were judging one another through their very fingers and palms.

Nadia’s attention fell to the family on the sofa. “Um momento, por favor.”

Just as Ferris began to wonder just how many languages this woman spoke, Nadia nodded toward a back room. They followed her down the hallway to a small office that seemed to have once been a storage closet. There were still boxes of supplies against one wall and an old wooden desk against another. Rows of wall-mounted utility shelves were lined with medical books, all in various states of wear-and-tear.

Nadia leaned against the desk, eyes drifting between her guests before she spoke.

“I’m guessing you’re not here for a stomachache,” she said.

“Good guess.” Ferris opened the folio he’d brought, picking through the documents. “We looked into you.”

The temperature of Nadia’s expression dropped to zero. “Excuse me?”

Ferris didn’t falter. “I was under the impression you wanted to continue working here.”

“I do. I just don’t know if it will be for you. I’m only here because of Will. Now—“

Gina’s voice cut the thought — a machete through fog.

“Dr. Mendoza was your mentor at Southport University. When he lost his license, you followed him. You could easily have finished your residency, but you left anyway. Now you’re running a back alley clinic on your own.”

“This clinic isn’t legal.” Ferris adjusted his glasses, trying to see past the glare. “And neither are you.”

At this, Nadia closed her eyes. Her chest rose and fell with a slow breath, fingers tightening on the rim of the desk.

“I was,” Nadia said. “When I was in school, I had a student visa. The hospital was going to sponsor me, but—“

She opened her eyes, her lips set in a distant frown.

“Will told me not to go with him. I didn’t listen— I didn’t care.”

Ferris watched her for a moment. With one hand, he balanced the folio, using the other to free a few crisp documents. With a turn of his wrist, he offered the papers.

“We have a front company,” he said. “Well, a few. But this one is a non-profit — The Linden Foundation. Researches chronic lyme disease.”

“That’s not a thing,” Nadia said. She eyed him before taking the documents. Her fingers picked through the pages, skimming the job description and offer letter.

Gina waved a hand. “We’re aware. But the Linden Foundation needs a program coordinator, and they’re sponsoring work permits. The position is yours, if you desire it.”

Nadia’s frown hadn’t budged. She eyed the letterhead, her eyes trailing over the agreement before falling on the salary. She peered at Ferris, unconvinced.

“There’s no guarantee this will grant me a visa.”

“We have someone over at the USCIS. I’d say your chances are promising.” This wasn’t a complete lie, but saying ‘I have a friend named Emily who goes to law school with another friend who has a sister at the United States Citizenship and Immigration Services who is totally down with cash bribes.’ was too much of a mouthful.

Nadia clapped the papers down onto the desk with a hard breath.

“You idiots want me to take a fake job at a fake company so I can continue running your fake clinic?”

Ferris shrugged. “Pretty much, yeah.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then we part ways,” Gina said.

Ferris and Gina fell silent, giving the woman time to think. If Nadia was going through a variety of emotions, she was certainly good at hiding it. She stared at the stack of papers on the desk, her face blank — unreadable. The overhead light flickered once, the bulb buzzing in its socket.

An entire minute passed before Nadia looked up, her stare locked on Ferris. She wasn’t blinking.

“Do you know who killed Will?”

“Yes.”

“End them,” Nadia said. “And I’ll do it.”

“In that order?” Gina said.

“Swear you’ll do it, and I’ll start today.”

The look Ferris and Gina exchanged was brief. Neither of them were cold-blooded killers, but there were ways of granting such wishes.

Gina shook the woman’s hand once more, this time more brief — more resolute.

“Deal,” Gina said.

Ferris closed the folio, tucking it back under his arm. He had half-expected Nadia to laugh in their faces, so this had gone better than it could have. It was hard to put a price on having a doctor on call — one that had no obligation to report unsavory injuries like gunshot wounds to a higher authority. Will had not been easy to find.

Even so, he couldn’t relax yet. This wasn’t over.

Somebody was going to have to kill Aldo.