Page 6 of Resuscitation
ChapterThree
Newark,NJ
Eight years ago…
It seemed the long,hot summer evening would never end. Andrew Mercer and his brother, Connor, strolled along the avenue, heading to their house in Springfield-Belmont. They passed shuttered storefronts with boarded windows plastered with graffiti. Vacant lots filled with overgrown weeds and derelict buildings had replaced what was once a bustling neighborhood.
Newark was meant to be the promised land for the Mercer family. When Andrew was eight and Connor four, Jamie, their father, had fled the dead-end mining jobs back in Montana after their grandfather had been killed by their neighbor and Jamie’s best friend, John Watts.
With Watts went the rubies their grandfather had smuggled out of the Bitterroot Star mine—and with the rubies went any chance Mercer and Connor had for a future.
“We really gonna do this?” Connor asked as they passed two girls sitting on a stoop, slurping Icees.
“No choice,” Mercer told him, shifting his empty gym bag. “We’re down to a few hundred bucks, and Dad’s?—”
“Dad,” Connor finished with a sigh. “I dunno, maybe we could go legit. I heard they’re hiring at?—”
“Fuck legit.” Mercer wheeled on his brother. “It’s all on us, now. We gotta take back what’s ours. That shit Watts murdered Grandpa, took the rubies. Our rubies.” Fighting the urge to shake sense into his brother, he instead took out a cigarette from his pack and lit it. Inhaled, refocused. “Yeah, we do the job. Gives us cash flow. Then we can put things in place to go after Watts. Once we find him, we’ll need decent shooters, equipment. Maybe a few more guys. None of that comes cheap.”
They continued past a liquor store and down a block. Mercer tossed the cigarette butt as they turned onto their street, past a collection of older multi-family homes, husked-out derelicts, and an abandoned Baptist church.
The Mercer family home was one of a row of identical pre-war brownstones. When they entered, the stench of urine mixed with cheap whiskey hit their nostrils. Jamie lay slumped at the kitchen table, a half-empty bottle within easy reach.
“What’s goin’ on, Dad?” Mercer asked loudly, dumping his sports bag on the floor.
Jamie spasmed into life and jerked his head up, eyes rolling, his bushy, black hair tussled from sleep, his once-athletic frame now thinner, scragglier. He rubbed his gray stubble and grunted before launching into a coughing fit.
“You gonna eat something? We got some leftover pizza,” Connor offered.
Their dad waved a hand violently, continuing to cough. Once the fit had passed, he reached for the bottle and poured a generous serving into a nearby glass. Jamie knocked back his drink in one swift motion, grimacing as it burned down his throat. He reached for his cigarettes and lighter.
Mercer looked down at this father. The once-leader of the family, who’d kept the money coming in from numerous illegal activities, was now a shell of a man.
Growing up, the boys learned to steal, pickpocket, a dozen different rackets—their dad taught them everything he knew. The boys could only pray that they’d be able to please him with the loot they brought home. Otherwise, there’d be an inevitable mood switch that would end with a slap.
But Mercer had grown to respect the fear their father instilled, that volatile change of mood at the snap of a finger, his resolve and single-minded pursuit in the art of obtaining money by any means possible. Except for a “regular” job, of course. Their mother, Emily, was long gone, years before Jamie had trucked them across the country from Montana. So, despite their father’s harsh demeanor, Mercer placed his old man on a pedestal.
He and Connor had a running argument. Mercer was certain that when he was eight and cut his arm on a jagged piece of metal in the front yard, his father had left work, dropped everything, rushed him to the hospital.
Connor said no, it was their neighbor, John Watts, who had taken Mercer while their dad played cards and drank whiskey.
“But I remember,” Connor would say.
“You’re wrong. Dad definitely took me,” Mercer insisted. Then he’d roll up his sleeve, the long scar across his forearm his final rebuttal, and Connor’d shut up. Nice thing about being the big brother, he always got the last word.
Now Mercer watched his dad pouring another drink and knew it was Connor who held the truth about that day. And today, it was time for Mercer had to face that truth, step up, otherwise they were finished. It was all up to him.
“That goddamn fucking Watts!” Jamie screeched, hammering a fist on the table. Neither son startled—they were used to his rants. He pointed a finger at Mercer. “You better get him, ya hear? You get him!”
“We’ll get him, Dad. We’ll get him. Don’t worry,” Mercer assured him, looking directly at Connor.
Those rubies, rubies their grandfather died for, were supposed to have been their chance at a better life. Mercer imagined John Watts living it up, spending what should’ve been theirs, laughing at their misfortune.
The injustice of it all burned in Mercer’s gut, fueling a rage he’d never felt before. He’d find a way to set things right, to reclaim what belonged to his family. No matter what it took, he silently vowed, John Watts would rue the day he double-crossed the Mercers.
But right now, they needed funds. Serious funds. And that meant doing the jewelry store across the river in New York. They’d been casing it all month. It was a big job. The biggest they had ever attempted, but the payoff was going to set them up on the road to finding Watts and the Bitterroot Star rubies.
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