Page 68 of Refrain

“So you two killed him?”

“No,” Arno says. “We didn’t kill him. That would have beentoo good for that piece of shit. We did him worse.” He sighs and pours another shot. Then he slides the glass over to me. “We sold him out to the Russians. They don’t take too kindly to traitors.”

“I can imagine.”

“I thought he did it for money, you know? For power. Some dumb shit. You never fucking know with Mack—”

“Why does it matter what he wanted?”

Arno looks up, and I almost pour myself a shot. I’ve never seen the gleam in his eye before. Not like this. He inhales the liquor, finishing off the rest of the bottle, and winds up coughing most of it back up. He has to pound on his chest, his eyes streaming, just to speak again.

“We watched,” he croaks. “While they pummeled the shit out of that sick fuck. He should have been begging for mercy, but he…he was laughing. At me. He said, ‘That Italian fucker bragged at how fucking easy it was. You didn’t even look for her. You didn’t even try…’” He breaks off, his hands clenching into fists. One of them strikes the surface of the table, knocking it off-balance. Again. “You should have seen him. Laughing even with a busted fucking jaw and a fucked-up eye. Just laughing. ‘You never gave a shit about her,’ he said. ‘She’s better…she’s better off without you.’”

“He was lying.” I try to make my voice soft, the way Dante did when he told me that Santa wasn’t real. Soft but firm like a good slap to the face. “Parish is gone, Arno.”

“You didn’t see him,” Arno says, shaking his head. “You didn’t see the fucking look on his face. I know Mack. I know that look.”

“Thisis why you’ve been so out of it.” Underneath everything, it was always her. “She’s dead, Arno.”

“You think I don’t fucking know that?” He lifts the bottle and starts to take a sip. Halfway to his mouth, he turns and hurtles it against the wall, sending broken glass flying in every direction. “You think I don’t fuckingknowthat?”

“You saw her—”

“I didn’t.” Admitting that makes him brace both hands flat against the table, his knuckles white. “I… Fuck, I couldn’t. I couldn’t. I sent in someone else. They said her face was t-too—fuck!”

“Mack got inside your head,” I say as gently as I can. “He wanted to fuck around—”

“I tried to let it go. But too many fucking things made sense. That’s how Stacatto operated, you know? Those fucking Italians. They loved keeping things around for ‘insurance.’ If she’s alive, the Russians would know where. Hell, she could be in any fucking one of their bars—”

“Arno, don’t do this.”

“Don’t fucking lecture me, Espisido. If it were Dante, you’d be doing the same fucking thing.”

I don’t have a comeback for that. The sick, ironic thing is that Arno has a better shot of finding his dead sister alive than I do of finding Dante when he doesn’t want to be found. The joke’s on me.

“I just wanted you to know,” he says, hauling himself upright. He has to take a few steps before he can balance on both feet.

“Okay.” I stand and turn for the door.

“Wait,” Arno says before I am halfway there. “There’s something else. I got a little message from Jose today. It’s not much, but it’s something that’s for sure.”

I can tell from his tone that I won’t like to hear whatever it is. “What?”

“Apparently, there’s word about a new gang in town. They’re recruiting, but get this—not the usual criminals and punks. They’re targeting ex-police. Informants. People who’ve been fucked over by the Cartel, or the Mob, or the Syndicate.”

“And the Gardai?” I say, taking a shot in the dark.

Arno just chuckles. “It seems like someone wants a war, little brother. You better keep your fucking head down. Got it?”

I leave him there to hunt for another bottle, but I can’t shakewhat he said. Maybe I don’t want to shake it. It gives my brain something real to focus on. Something important.

After all, a war just means more business for me. I even manage to laugh at the bitter irony. Business. If only I could afford to keep my fucking kit stocked in the meantime.

I hunt for the current cause of my low supplies, but I don’t find her sweeping at the corners of the bar. It’s only later that night when the girls take the stage that I realize she’s gone. I know without even having to go up and check that she took the gun.

I tilt my head back to eye the ceiling while I fish my final cig from my pocket and light it up. One hit and I don’t feel anything, just a burning taste in my mouth. Two drags don’t help, either.

I’ve gotten hooked on something harsher than nicotine. The funny thing is that I can’t go five minutes without a cigarette, but without her?

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