Chapter [???]: Byron goes for a drug run

⦿ Early Awakening Era: Garrison, 2018

“Get yer nose outta that book, son, it’s time for a run.”

Byron froze, and then reshelved his copy of Emmett Ramsey’s Principles of Mental Conflict. He followed Seamus through the hallways to the front door, which his uncle opened for him. “After you, wee bookworm. Back to the real world.”

“Byron!” Byron’s mother came running down the stairs. “You’re staying home.”

Seamus rolled his eyes. “Fuck’s sake, here we go again.”

“Please, Seamus, find someone else. Call one of your men.”

“Get back to yer room, Evie. M’not in the mood ta beat ya this time.”

“Your brother never wanted him in the business, and you know that, you know it!” Evie’s face was turning red.

No, mother, thought Byron, please calm yourself.

“My brother’s long dead, little lady, and now it’s my job to make your fuckin’ fairyboy a man.”

“You are pissing on Nuada’s grave!” she screamed. She slapped Seamus across the face.

Seamus stood still. He stared down Evie. She slowly backed away in fear. Without turning around, Seamus picked car keys out of his pocket and threw them toward Byron. “Wait in the car, lad.” Seamus began to undo his belt. “Yer bitch mother asked fer it this time.”

“No!” Byron ran for the door. It shut in his face. He pounded against it, hearing his mother’s muffled screams as Seamus struck her.

Out of nowhere appeared Liam, the Dueley family butler. He put a hand on Byron’s shoulder. The two stood there silently, Byron shuddering in sadness and fury, and Liam still as an oak.

After a few minutes, Seamus emerged, red-faced. “Let’s go.” His expression turned oddly tentative as he met eyes with Liam. “Give me the keys, Liam. I’ll drive.”

Seamus and Byron walked to the driveway.

“Creepy-ass motherfucker,” Seamus muttered under his breath as he and Byron entered the car.

Byron sat frozen for the drive to the train station. Seamus’s expression was grim. “Don’t give me that, boy. You know she asked fer it. It’s not a task I’m keen t’do. But it’s my job to show ye that a man must keep his house in order. That means discipline. Do ye understand me, Byron?”

Byron said nothing.

“You’ll understand one day. And then you’ll thank yer uncle Shamie. You’ll say ta yerself, Uncle Shamie, he mighta been a bad bastard, but he made me tough. He made me ready fer this nasty world.” Seamus, looked at his watch. “Fuck. Yer fuckin’ mother made us late.” He sped up to tailgate the car in front of them. The car pulled to the side of the road to let them pass.

They pulled into Garrison station just as the train to Grand Central arrived.

“Forget buyin’ a ticket, lad, just run onto the train.” Seamus took a $100 bill from his wallet and passed it to Byron. “It’ll cost ye extra, but Uncle Shamie’s got ye covered. Get yerself somethin’ nice while yer in the big city.”

Byron got out of the car.

“Ent you forgettin’ something ye fuckin’ eejit?”

“Sorry,” said Byron, catching the briefcase his uncle tossed him.

“Lose that briefcase and I’ll fuckin’ kill ya.” Seamus nodded toward the train. “Better make tracks, boy.”

Byron took the train to Grand Central Station. From there, he took the shuttle to Times Square, and then the Q all the way east. By the time he arrived, it was nightfall.

Byron stepped out at Brighton Beach Station. As the subway screeched away behind him, he readied the tough guy act his uncle had taught him.

“What about ya, squirt?”

Byron turned to the ugly man with big ears that was waiting for him on the platform. “Hi, Johnny,” he said to his favorite thug.

“Put em up, let’s see if you still got it.” Johnny did an exaggerated boxing pose and shuffled back and forth.

Byron smiled and put up his fists.

“Let’s go, little fella, land one here,” Johnny put his hand out.

Byron punched it.

“Comon now, that all ye got? We gotta show them Russians who runs this town, don’t we? Let’s have it.”

Byron punched his hand again, harder. Johnny feined falling to the ground, his eyes opened wide in mock surprise. “All right, all right, I’ve had enough. Now help me up. We’ve a good hour before our date with Vasily. Let’s get us some borsht. What do you say?”

Johnny’s mock fall to the ground had drawn his leather jacket back, revealing something shiny tucked into his belt. Byron stared down at it.

“Don’t worry, lad, it’s ta protect ya. Yer uncle’d have me cut from nose t’navel if I let anything happen t’ya. He’d probly use that fancy knife your da kept on ‘em.”

Byron glared at him.

“Sorry, sorry, ‘sword of light.’ Whatever it please you fuckin’ call it. Now help me up.” Byron grabbed his hand and Johnny flew to his feet. “Woah! The arms on this one!”

As they walked off off the platform, it began to lightly rain. Johnny took out an umbrella and held it over Byron. Tiny droplets pattered and slicked the street. Lights bled across its newly reflective surface: the beam of a taxi, the red-orange hand of a blinking pedestrian traffic signal. Steam billowed up from a manhole cover, warming them as they passed it.

The two strolled to a corner restaurant with a neon sign: “PETROVNA WINE AND BORSHT.” 

It was florescently lit inside with only one other patron: A dreary man reading a newspaper while sipping his soup in the back corner. They sat down at one of the diner-style booths, Byron facing the shop window, Johnny with his back to it.

“Hello Big Irish and Little Irish,” said a stocky woman behind the bar.

“More like Little Mutt,” said Johnny. “His mum’s a Yankee.”

“Oh?” the woman seemed surprised. “World series?”

“Not a fuckin’ baseball player, Dunechky, an American. Now let’s get two plates’a borsht.”

The woman narrowed her mouth. “For last time, fat man, I’m not Dunechky, I’m Dunechka.”

“And I’m fuckin’ starvin’, so what’s it gonna be?”

“It’s gonna be spit in your borsht, Big Irish.” Dunechka smiled sweetly at Byron. “And extra potato for you, Little Irish. 10 minute.” Dunechka ducked away into the kitchen.

Johnny held out his hands, face down, for a game of slaps. “Old hag reminds me of me granny back in Derry. That woman took no shit.”

Byron put his hands under Johnny’s. He twitched them upwards to bluff a slap, causing Johnny to flinch his hands off Byron’s palms.

“Jesus fuckin’ wept, me reflexes are gettin’ weak. All right, let’s have it.”

Byron slapped the back of his hands. Johnny grimaced and rubbed them as if they’d touched a stove top. Then he put his hands back on top of Byrons.

“You’re quiet t’day, little mutt. What’s eatin’ ye?”

Byron’s hands went still. “Seamus beat my mom again.”

Johnny squished his lips together and averted Byron’s gaze. He nodded regretfully. “Aye, yer uncle’s a wrathful one. Ach!”

Byron had slapped the tops of Johnny’s hands, catching him by surprise.

“I wish my dad was here. I’d ask dad to kill him.”

Johnny considered this. “Yeh, he might’ve. Yer dadai was one hard fucker. Back in Belfast I once saw yer da take on a whole gang of Protestants. Don’ know how ‘ee did it. I was there bleedin’ on the ground, when he brought out that freaky pagan shit he learned from his da, and I guess his da’s da at that.”

Johnny put his hands down, not conscious of ending their game. His eyes grew distant.

“He just charged at ‘em huns, singin’ in a boomin’ voice like I never heard. Stunned ‘em into submission, all five or six of ‘em. I swear ye, they was ready to run. But he wasn’t havin’ it. ‘Ee took out that switchblade of his—or sword or whatever—’nd….”

Johnny broke out of his reverie. “Well, the rest ent fer kids, sorry Byron.” He looked at the far wall. “Yer da saved me life that night. If that was your da at all. I tell ye, he looked like a man possessed by somethin’ prehistoric. There was fire in his eyes like never I saw.” He scratched his cheek, remembering. “He’d sometimes turn it on when the fightin’ boys got sloppy. We’d straighten back up when he got that look in his eye, I tell ye that. Yer uncle too. I think Shamie must’ve been in awe of him. And to tell ye the truth, I think Shamie must’ve hated him fer it. Maybe still.”

Byron’s eyes glimmered. “You were in the IRA with my dad?”

Johnny’s face grew proud. “Damn right, I was. It’s how we got started with this whole business. And those crazy Westie motherfuckers. Sendin’ money home t’buy guns and ammo fer our Fenian boys. Out here where the fuckin’ Brits and Protestant huns couldn’t touch us. ‘Course out here there were plenty others who could. Like them fuckin’ guineas.”

“Guineas?”

“The Italian fuckers. The mob.”

“You mean the ones who killed my dad?”

“Aye, ye know all this already, dontcha?”

Byron shook his head. “Dad never told me anything about it.”

“Aye, he hated to give ye any part of it. Had a day full of doubts once and he turned t’me and said, ‘Don’t ferget why we do it, Johnny, We do it for our sons, yours and mine. We do it to set the sons of Ireland free.’ I tell ye, yer da mighta been no saint, but I never met a man with bigger dreams in me life.”

A look of confusion swept Byron’s face. “Is that what we’re doing now?

“What now?”

“Are we selling drugs to fund the Irish Republic Army?”

Johnny looked nervously at the soup-drinking man in the corner. “Keep quiet with that will ya? We’re still in public,” he whispered. “No, ‘suppose that’s all over now.” Johnny rubbed his head.

Out of the corner of his eye, Byron saw someone in the dark, approaching from outside the shop window.

“Not sure why we do it now to be honest with ya. I still do it fer me son, I guess. He’s in college now. ‘Suppose I do it too out of loyalty to yer clan.” Johnny looked at the ground.

A pale-eyed shaven-head man in his late 30s opened the glass door. He wore a tracksuit with white lines down the sleeves over a tight shirt, with tattoo’s snaking down his thick neck.

“Owe yer da a blood debt, like I tol’ ya. Gotta look out fer the money ‘ee left ye behind. ‘Ee said to me, ‘My boy will be greater than King Nuada one day.’  I thought yer da was talkin’ ‘bout himself!” Johnny broke out laughing. “‘No,’ ‘ee said, ‘Nuada of the Tuatha Dé Danann.’ Some kinda tribe of queens, heroes, n’ gods outta the old Irish tales.” Johnny brushed his chin. “Me memory’s foggy on it.”

The shaven-headed man was coming toward their booth. Byron wondered if it was their contact today. He was taking some kind of string out of his pocket, and winding it around his hands. He was staring at the back of Johnny’s neck.

Coming to his senses, Johnny yelled toward the kitchen, “Hey, Dunechky, where the fuck is our borsht—?”

The man drew the string around Johnny’s throat.