Where the Honeysuckles Grow

Two weeks earlier:

​There will be war; he saw it now in the leaking eyes of the groveling boy, held by the bare forearm of his father, firmly pressed across his chest, pulling the child in front of him. A gun racked and loaded against his own son's temple. “Daddy, please,” the boy whimpered through a quivering lip. 

“Is this what you want—the blood of a child on your hands?” The father spat the words. Staring directly at the barrel of Bill's raised handgun

​​The cool, steady aim of the veteran marksman trembled under the weight of trepidation. Bill was close enough to see the spittle storming from the father’s twisted mouth, but not confident enough to take the shot. He tried to think in the slow-moving moments that ensued during a pending tragedy. 

He went to speak, offering a guiding line to defuse the situation.

That was when the shot rang out.  

​

Present:

​He sauntered on the crumbling sidewalk, avoiding the unfixed curbs and low dips with a wide looping gait, trying to mitigate the stinging pain of a repressed back injury. The air was tacky with the last trifling notes of a fading summer. Cut by the off-water breeze chilling his damp skin.

​He welcomed the sudden whoosh of the airtight doors, adding a degree of cooling. After a rush of human traffic, he entered somberly. The door shut tightly behind him, nearly propelling him into the establishment. He peered back one final time. The angled swinging of the pitch-black entryway might as well have been cemetery gates.

​He saw him, belly tight to the bar. One gnarled hand around a dripping whiskey glass. He'd been waiting; he was sure of it; they both were.

​He sat next to the seemingly despondent gentleman without granting him his gaze—finger up, trying to get the bartender's attention. “No need; this one's for you,” the abhorrent patron said with a chiseled undertone. He slid the drink to his left, sloshing its brown contents. “I got your favorite. Whiskey on the rocks.” Still peering directly at the waxed wood of the looping bar. “What a way to sign off, old friend.”

He let the statement hang in the stale air of the pub. He grasped the chilled glass and downed as much of it as he could. He shivered, placing it back on the coaster, ice tinkling. “Well, at the very least I'm glad it's you.”

​ 

Two and a half weeks earlier:

​He took in his surroundings and slumped comfortably on the bench on the north side of the park. Reception was fuzzy here. Harder to triangulate your location; even with a burner, he didn't take his chances. He angled his head towards the scent on the wind. Honeysuckle. It reminded him of his daughter. She loved picking them, tearing out the bottom half, and licking the nectar-filled dollop at the end of the flower she'd disassembled, giggling as she prepared one for her father.

​The phone buzzed deep in his pocket, a light tingling pressed hard to his thigh. He answered.

​“Line is secure, ready for debriefing? The words cut through a line of static:

"Go ahead.”

“File number 598: Freddy Galzano—single heir to the Galzano crime family. A real renegade, or so I'm told; an absolute jewel, scum of the earth, as the buyer explained it. His uncle, Fabrizio Galzano. He says the boy is downright destroying the family, tarnishing their reputation. Hooker parties, diving into their own supply. Spending daddy's money without precaution. Like a gambling addict with eternal pockets.” The line brayed with a kick of white noise before the dispatcher continued

“He needed an outside contractor; his brothers gone soft for his one and only, not so much as a slap on the wrist. His dear old uncle wants him gone. Restore their family's name and stir commotion with their rival. The uncle believes his trailing brother has lost his edge and has no intention of going after the Stunad family, who have been deliberately marching in on their territory, if it looks like they took out his son. Fabrizio hopes it'll light a fire directly under his balls. It's sick, but sick people do sick things.

​A pause on the line. “Time and location?”

“South side of Candlewood, a luxury-style alpine chalet cabin. Settled on five acres of private property. There's a hidden access road for drug running and/or a quick getaway in case things get hairy. That's where you'll enter. He routinely makes his weekly visit after his errand run to their cocaine supplier; from there he grabs his pick of escorts and has a big ole party at the family vacation spot. From there, it don't matter; take him out however you gotta.”

​“Bodyguards? Security?”

​“None. He's not supposed to be there; calling in some extra muscle would draw attention to the family, attention he's trying to avoid. You're clear.”

​“Witnesses?”

“Don't matter; that whole felonious shindig ensures no snitches. But I'd wear a mask just in case."

“Time?”

“Week from now, 0100. Standard rate plus twenty for short notice.”

​“Heard. Consider it done.”

​Before he could even pull the receiver away from his ear, the raspy crackle of his dispatcher pulled him back.

“Right, one more thing before you depart: leave a rose, a black one at that, preferably in his pocket. If he doesn't have pockets, his mouth, doesn't really matter, as long as they get the message. A calling card from the Stunad family that'll really get things buzzin”

​He hung up, promptly turning the flip phone backward until it cracked. He tossed the mangled tech far behind the bush of honeysuckles.

​

Present:

​“A dead kid, his father, and no rose; you started a war alright.” The conversation was deadly slow, matching the pace of the aforementioned outcome; no need to be rash. "You made a real mess of things there, Billy,” the first time he heard his government name in some time. Refreshing, he thought, like ice to fevered bones.

​“I saw no choice in the matter; the scene was compromised, bad intel. I had to think fast.” Bill tipped the glass toward the bartender, signaling for a fill-up.

​“Never thought you were one for excuses, Bill.  I've seen the shit storms you've come out of; I could argue most were worse.” He found himself grinning at the macabre remark.

​He swiveled the stool towards Bill, giving him the grace of his full-on attention. “Regardless of what happened. This is how it goes, and you know that. I have no choice; we…” he staggered, lowering his stature to hide his words from roving ears.

​“We don't kill kids no matter the circumstance.” He reclaimed his upright posture before continuing.

​“Not to mention the all-out internal destruction of the Galzano family. The boss lost his kid and his grandkid in one fell swoop; fingers started pointing, none in the right direction, and civil war ensued, the literal opposite of the objective; the call for your termination also hinged greatly on a bad review.” He emptied the air from his nostrils in a sigh of discontent.

​“It's been two weeks, Bill. Two! You've eluded us this whole time; why now, and why me?” he snapped, his demeanor ice-cold.

​Bill took a long sip of his watered-down bourbon. Keeping his line of sight on the back of the bar. “Because I can't live with this anymore, Frank. I wanted you to be the one to collect on my head. I know you're gonna do what's right.” He paused just enough for the taste of whisky to fully dissipate on his tongue before smacking it clear.

​“Give the bounty money to my little girl.”

​His friend turned about-face, slumping his arms on the bar; the weight of the situation had finally started to press on him. “But can you do me one favor, Bill? I'm asking because I know you-  what really happened?

​

Two weeks ago:

​The air was stifling, humidity trapped between the swath of trees and tangled greenery invading the dirt road—Bill's breath heavy, with the drag of the dense fog.

​The moonlight dappled the clearing as he stepped into the scant light, the air fresher on this side, tainted with a whisper of the water's edge.

​He gently palmed the piece on his side, firmly pressing the holster to his leg, ready to draw; he was in enemy territory.

​Something was off; he noted it immediately. If the mark was a cash-burning deviant, he'd assume to hear some offensive raucousness—nothing but the hush of a still night and the occasional nocturnal fluttering.

​His greater instincts told him to turn around, but he had an irrational itch to confirm the notion.​

Just outside the sliding doors, on the gravel patio, was a roaring fire pulsing with intensity from a stone pit. On one side sat the lowly target, slumped close to the flame, his gold chain swinging, glinting in the natural light.

​On the adjacent side sat a boy. No older than ten. Pin-straight hair and a grin that was plastered with chocolate. 

S'mores: he and the young boy were making s'mores—a far stretch from the fiend that was portrayed.

​Before he could abort, the patio light blazed like a lunar flash, exposing his position like an escaped convict. He staggered in the luminescence. The man's reaction was immediate; scared out of his wits, he shuffled backward on the gravel. “Ah, fuck they did it. I knew they were gonna do it fuck, fuck, fuck.”  “Daddy?” the boy whimpered, retaining the scattered urgency of his father.

​He b-lined around the crackling bonfire and snatched his son, trapping him tight to his body. Unlatching a side piece from the back of his jeans, he pressed the barrel to the boy's head.

​Time froze; the ambling flame cast a pulsing shadow to the side of the house. A single silhouette that jumped in height as the two beings became one.

​“Ah, you prick, now what? It was my uncle, wasn't it? The lousy bastard had it out for me, couldn't get his hands dirty, so he sent a hired gun. But I know you lot; you got morals. You wouldn't hurt a kid.”

​Bill's hands trembled; the weight of his Beretta seemed to double. He tried to steady himself, using the aim of his gun to buy time. He had to think. In that small, hectic gap of pondering, the target became more belligerent.

​He laid his eyes on the boy, trying to stifle his tears; it seemed like he wanted to scream to the world, but the panic set it in place.

​“Get the fuck out of here! Would ya? This is none of your concern. Go scurry back; mission failed.” he became animated, moving about, thrashing his son like unruly livestock. “They'll chew you out or whatever. And I'll live to burn my fucking family for even attempting this horse shit.”

​Somewhere in the middle of his amplified shouting, an explosion rang out, tinging off the side of the glass doors and losing itself off the water. The gun in the father's hands fired by accident. The boy slumped from his father's trembling arms and lay lifeless before the dying embers. The scream that bellowed from the man can only be described as the harbinger of death itself.

​The note snuffed out after the second shot echoed from the chamber, this time from Bill's gun. It was done; the target was eliminated. He'd hid the bodies, hoping the mess would be curtailed into a missing persons situation; a fled felon on the run from the law and his own family would be an easy tale to spin. He didn't account for the bulging-eyed witness peering from the upstairs window.

​

Present:

​Everybody knew the story, by now the proper story. Maybe this was a plea from Frank, a last-ditch effort to change the narrative. Or even to help retain a small trace of his old pal's dignity.

​“Like you said, Frank, it was a kid; that's the code. Does it really matter what happened?”

Frank's mouth tightened into a thin line, tearing a hole through Bill with an intense stare. He knew he'd never get the full answer from the broken vet.

A radiant acceptance poured over the two, a fine breath of fresh air in the stagnant pub that could only be inhaled on the wings of your final hours. They drank, spoke a little of old times. Merry with the warmth from their never-ending libations.

​The orbital bulbs that scattered about the dive began to grow, like a thousand mini suns; they hummed with their increased wattage. “Last call,” hollered the spent bartender.

​If you only knew, Bill muttered to himself.

​

What really happened that night:

A young boy and his father were the last thing he expected when he reached the clearing. They were in hysterics over the boy's smeared face.

​Bill's dejected sigh queued the two towards his position. He racked and slid his gun into firing position on instinct alone.

​Galzano clocked the threat immediately, the gravel kicking up dust as he scurried towards his son, embracing him in a panic. Crouched by the boy's lawn chair.

​“I knew this was coming, ahh. Probably my uncle.” Bill paused, fermenting over the rhetoric; he was still evaluating the threat.

​“Please, man, you can’t. Not now. I just got my son back; I'm turning everything around, I promise. No more crime from me, Jesus, man, please.” His words were chopped by the furious flutter of his racing heart.

​He scooted his son lightly behind himself, shielding him completely. “Daddy, please, what's going on?” the little one stammered. “I know, buddy, it's going to be ok.”

​“What can we do to make this right? Just tell him I wasn't here? I promise on my two babies it's over for me, no more trouble. I'm just trying to be a good person, a good father.”

​The frantic appeal must have alerted someone from inside the house. The sliding door shifted, exposing a young woman just barely older than his own daughter would have been now.

​“Dad, what's going on?” it came out in a whimper.

​Galazno looked towards the distraught teenager.

​“Go back inside, honey; it's gonna be ok.”

​The cold, hard grasp fell limp around Bill's handgun, unlooping his finger from the trigger. The mass scurry of panic gave him just enough time to think of a plan, to think about his loss, his life hereafter, and his legacy.

​He wanted this to be over; he missed his daughter.

​“It's ok; here's what we're going to do.”

Freddy Galzano and his son were shot and killed in a hit gone wrong outside his lofty bungalow. An eyewitness said they were stowed away and thrown into the river in an attempt to turn the endeavor into a missing person case instead of a botched killing.

Or so the papers would say...

That night Bill sealed his fate; he let the boy and his father go. “Your little girl will tell the police she saw everything, tell them I killed them both. Dump them in the river to cover up my mess; this way your family will scramble and start an improbable civil war looking for justice. You can all slip away undetected while they dodge their own namesake. I'll give you some banking info.” 

He slipped a folded piece of paper gently into Freddy Galzano’s hand, with all the proper details of his late daughter's financial portfolio. “It'll be hit with a large sum in about a week. Don't worry, it's not tracked. Take it; Start a new life, take care of your kids, and start over.”

He lost his daughter in a custody battle, then forever in the accident; karma, maybe for the things he's done. In the end, he had taken so many lives; maybe for once he could save one.

​

Present:

​The outside was pitch-black, except for a few dying street lamps. The clouds were grey with an iridescent glow from the full moon.

​“Shall we take a little walk?” Frank picked up his tone just a pitch above somber

​“Yeah, let's walk, Frankie.”

“To the old park?”

​“Yeah, to the old park, where the honeysuckles grow.”

​

​