Better to Die a Hero (4 page)

Her proximity caught him by surprise. “Uh,” and a smile was all he could get out before the door closed and the pair headed up stairs. This happened often, but Nora’s pleasant demeanor always allowed him to make a fast recovery. The weekly visits to his house over their senior year were always short, but pleasant. They would chat for a few minutes and then she would change clothes in his bathroom. She went in wearing clothes her mother approved of and came out wearing something he was sure her parents didn't know she owned—usually tight, always revealing. Nora would then leave for the mall to meet her girlfriends. Steve didn't care if she was using his place for a changing room. Having her around was an exhilarating experience. Not only that, but because she was the smartest and most popular girl in school, it had to help raise his and Bryan's stature.

Bryan's jaw fell to his chest when Nora walked in the room. “Hi Nora, I didn't know you were coming over.”

“Hi Bryan.” Her chipper tone turned cautious. “Oh, you have the guns out. They kind of make me nervous.”

“We were just putting them away.” Steve motioned for Bryan to help.

Bryan enfolded each pistol in its own protective cloth and placed them into the crate.

“I have something for you Steve.” Nora slipped a florescent-green tote bag off her shoulder onto the corner of the bed. She reached in and pulled out a large antique bottle containing a yellow powder. The long glass neck had a thin leather patch tied over the opening. “And here's the note that was in the bottle.” She held out both items. The brittle paper, covered in faded Chinese characters, crackled during the exchange.

He looked at the bottle curiously. Two days ago when Nora had left with the bottle, it contained a yellowish mass as hard as stone and the leather patch was a new addition. “What'd your grandfather do to this stuff?”

“He chipped it out and ground it up,” she replied. “It's rhinoceros horn. I have to change, I'll be right out.” She gave them a smile, grabbed her tote, and entered the bathroom closing the door behind her.

“So buddy,” Bryan said, “is there something you want to tell me?”

“I wish there was something to tell,” Steve said. “She came over the other day to get our English assignment, right after I had opened the crate. The bottle was wrapped in a towel sitting on top. When she recognized Chinese writing on the paper in side, she grabbed the bottle, grabbed the assignment, and was out the door.”

Bryan laughed, “You're still not having any luck getting her to stay and talk for more than a few minutes.”

“No,” Steve said softly. “She is in and out of here so fast. I think maybe it's because of all the smoke in the house. She’s very health conscious you know”

“That could be it.” Bryan slipped into the persona of their favorite African American standup comic. “Of course it could be because, you are so… butt ugly.”

Both boys laughed.

“You guys sound like you're having fun,” Nora said, pushing the bathroom door open with her foot. She shuffled her way to the dresser in the corner of the room, carrying three small water-filled cups and placed them on the dresser top. The sake cups were the size of shot glasses, opaque white with black Chinese characters, not that the two boys were in any condition to dwell on such detail. Nora had slipped into a black half-shirt and low-cut jeans.

Nora gestured to Steve, “Bring the rhinoceros powder over here. I want to make a toast in honor of our friendship.”

Bryan made a swift grab at the bottle and met her at the dresser.

Untying the string from around the neck of the bottle, she laid the leather cap out flat. She poured a small amount of the yellowed powder onto the leather, set the bottle down, and with a flat stick scooped up a portion of powder. She tapped the substance into one of the cups, and then repeated this procedure with the other two cups. With the stick, she stirred one then the next and then the last.

Steve reluctantly took his eyes off Nora and glanced at the mixtures, “I hope we’re not supposed to drink that stuff.”

Nora handed Bryan a cup. “Of course we’re supposed to drink it. It's only Rhinoceros horn. It's good for your well being.” She gave Steve a cup and took the last one for herself.

“I don't know,” Bryan added, his enthusiasm waning, “are you sure this stuff is edible?”

“Guys, my ninety year old Grandfather drank some.” She held her cup up. “Here’s to our friendship.” She quaffed her drink like a cowboy in from the range. “And besides, it's an aphrodisiac.”

Bryan held his drink up. “Here’s to Viagra for saving the rhinos.” His portion slid down faster than a beautiful woman could say the word aphrodisiac three times fast.

Steve brought the glass to his lips, hesitated, and then gulped the mixture. The gritty substance scratched its way down and he truly hoped that it wasn’t an aphrodisiac. The last thing he needed was to be hornier than he already was.

BETTER TO DIE A HERO

CHAPTER 4

N
ew York Journal:

“
Hello, I’m Michelle O’Donnell and welcome to this edition of New York Journal. The top story in New York tonight concerns John Savini an alleged Mafia boss. A grand jury will convene next Monday to investigate racketeering allegations made against Savini by the New York District Attorney and sources from within the FBI have told us at The Journal that John Savini is considered the “boss of bosses” of the Italian Mafia. This alone makes him a person of great interest, but it gets better. Savini has no criminal record and Mafia experts tell us there is no history of him working his way up the ranks of any known crime family. This leads us to the question, if he is the new Don, how did he get there? If all this isn’t enough, what New Yorkers will find most intriguing about this alleged crime boss is that he is inflicted with albinism. For more on the story let’s go to correspondent Jeff Talbot on location in New York's Little Italy.”

“Thank you Michelle, I'm standing here on Mulberry Street in front of the Cafe' Simcelli, a known hangout of John Savini and his entourage. People have been seeing him eat at this diner for the past year. It is hard not to notice the big man. He stands well over six-feet and is quite large, or one might use the term obese. Of course the real reason people notice him is because of his medical condition. Now, I interviewed several people on the street today and no one I've talked to believes this man has any ties to the Mafia. Most everyone thinks he is either a successful businessman or a rich heir. They also agree that he seems to be a man in charge. That is, he behaves like he has the authority in the group and the other men seem to take direction from him. Back to you Michelle.”

“Thank you Jeff. Well the question is, is this man the boss of bosses? To help us answer this question, we have with us in the studio Robert Smith, a professor of Sociology at Michigan State University and renowned organized crime expert. So, Robert what do you make of this?”

“Well, Michelle, I think I can say quite confidently that this man is not a top boss or even a mid-level boss in the New York based Mafia. I say that for several reasons. First, I can tell you he's never appeared on any FBI organized crime chart I've ever seen and as you mentioned he has absolutely no police record. No one rises through the ranks of organized crime without leaving a trail of suspicion that gets, at least somewhat, documented by the FBI, and that is just plain fact. And secondly, I doubt that figures in organized crime would follow a person with such an obvious genetic defect as albinism. It would be seen as a sign of weakness and inferiority.”

“I see, is this man a complete outsider, Robert?”

“No, John's father was Anthony Savini, a mid-level boss working directly under Paul Castellano of the Gambino crime family. Savini was indicted along with over a hundred other men, on the evidence of the now famous Castellano tapes. However, Anthony Savini died of colon cancer before he made it to trial. So there is a possibility that he is connected and he has been seen with some of the members of the Gambino clan this past year, however I can guarantee you that he doesn’t have anywhere near the power the FBI is leading us to believe.”

“Robert, it is a known fact that the Gambino crime family and the other four Italian clans are becoming increasingly tattered and disorganized. Could there be a connection between this and the appearance of John Savini?”

“Well, Michelle, if it were the case that the Mafia is willing to give a great deal of power to someone with no experience and a genetic disorder, then the organization may be quite desperate.”

*          *          *

Steve spun away from the computer screen and glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. Without missing a beat, he registered the illuminant 3:01 a.m., and then, at a speed foreign to himself, centered back on the colorful action being played out on the nineteen-inch monitor. Several times in the past nine hours, the voice in his head counseled don’t panic at what he thought he must be experiencing—an amphetamine induced high.

“One on the left, two below,” Bryan said, while uncharacteristically manhandling the expensive joystick.

The toughest sentries littered the final level of Intergalactic Defenders. The giant brain creature, Null, greatly weakened by the aerial attacks of Steve and Bryan's characters, quivered like gray jelly. Steve attacked the sentries keeping them occupied, while Bryan set his plasma rifle to full power and blasted away at the space alien, depleting his last energy cartridge. Null's transparent brain membrane erupted and billions of neurons spilled into the control chamber. The sound of disintegration and explosions erupted from the speakers and the animated chamber began to crumble.

This is the end, Steve thought. Their characters hovered deep in the heart of an alien death ship set to self-destruct in a matter of minutes. No gamer in the world could backtrack through the maze of corridors that had led them to this chamber and exit the ship to safety, not the first night of game play.

“Follow me,” Bryan ordered.

The “Page Down” key displayed a fast panoramic view and Steve spotted the back end of Bryan’s character flying toward one of the exits. He executed a 180-degree turn and followed his friend's lead; out the chamber door, the two jetpack-clad characters flew. Through a network of complex corridors, up repair conduits and down elevator shafts the two of them guided their heroes at top speeds.

“I can't believe this. I think we’re going to make it.” Steve jostled his low-end joystick to the left and to the right.

The two would-be Buck Rogers blew a cargo hatch, the only barrier between them and success. Their forward momentum, aided by the escaping atmosphere, ejected them far into space and away from the doomed death ship. The heroes' own starship drifted close. They entered and instinctively hit “control S” bringing online the protective force field. The joysticks and keyboards stopped responding to their commands; the game switched to automatic. The 3-D graphics on both monitors now displayed identical viewpoints, the view screen from the bridge of the small ship. For nearly a minute, the death ship rocked as fiery discharges erupted from its enormous hull, top of the line sound effects skipped from one speaker to the next, and then the ship exploded sending debris in all directions. The image on the computer screen bounced to emulate fragments deflecting off the shielded spacecraft. Game over flashed repeatedly across the screen. Ignoring his usually disciplined computer habits, Steve reached out and turned his computer off, bypassing a graceful shut down.

Bryan said, “They add the fire and sounds for dramatic effect, but in space there’s no atmosphere to carry sound waves.”

Hands over face, peering through fingers, Steve turned to his friend. “Are you kidding me? I think we did some kind of speed tonight and you’re critiquing the game.”

“What are you talking about? We're just good at what we do.” Bryan placed the joystick on the desk, leaned back in his chair, and interlocked his fingers behind his head.

“Please, don't tell me you didn't feel that. I mean, I really felt enhanced.”

“Don't get all melodramatic.” Bryan spun out of his chair. “I mean, we're almost out of high school and we've drank how many times?” Bryan didn’t wait for an answer. “Twice. Sometimes I think that is so pathetic.” He placed his face a few inches in front of the dresser mirror, pulled his bottom eyelid down, and examined his pupil. “It was an accident, so don't feel too guilty. If that stuff is speed at least now I know why people do it.”

“You're right about that,” Steve said, “I've never been so alert in my life. My hand to eye coordination was phenomenal and so was yours.”

Bryan replied in gaming lingo, “Thank you most lawful knight.”

“You know,” Steve said, even as a contradictory yawn forced its way out, “from what I've heard about these types of drugs, we're never going to get to sleep tonight. I should flush that shit down the toilet.” He yawned a second time.

“I don’t think so.” Bryan inched toward the bottle.

Steve lunged over the bed and grabbed his friend’s arm before Bryan moved the bottle a foot.

Their competitions had always been of the intellectual nature, this one was physical. Bryan strained his biceps in an effort to pull the bottle toward his chest. Steve pushed downward attempting to force the bottle back to the dresser. The two labored, motionless for several minutes.

Bryan’s words hissed from clenched teeth. “You think you're tough, look at this.” He raised and lowered his eyebrows in an alternating fashion, creating a smooth wave that rolled across his forehead.

“Not good enough.”

“Then try the... evil bunny.” Bryan drew his brow to a scowl, a cascade of skin folds building on one another disappeared into his dark hairline. His front teeth thrust forward and the boy’s nose went slightly pug.

How the hell does he do that? Steve thought.

The strength his skinny friend exerted was surprising and impressive; however, and in spite of a lack of leverage, Steve’s greater strength impelled the bottle toward the dresser. Bryan hissed. His eyes crossed inward, one twitching violently.

Steve laughed and let go.

Bryan stumble back, red faced and out of breath. “You… look… disappointed.” He set the bottle down and rubbed his eyes. “May have popped… some capillaries on that one.”

“Dude, are you alright?”

“I’m getting there,” Bryan said. “I’ll make you a deal. We don't take any more of this stuff, but we don't throw it out either. You keep it safe and sound for the summer and this fall I'll take a sample to the University and have a professor run some tests on it.”

Steve's eyes rolled up and to the left.

“What do you say? I have to know what this stuff is. Wouldn't you like to know if we ingested Methel-ethel-death?”

“I think I would.” He liked the reassuring smile that crossed his friend’s face. “It’s a deal. You analyze the hell out of it this fall. I'm going to bed.” Steve sat on the bed and bent over to untie his shoes.

“Good idea.” Bryan drug his feet heading to the guest bedroom that for the last four years was his bedroom away from home.

Steve turned off the light, got into bed and looked at the gouge left in the ceiling by Bryan’s sword wielding. Uncle George would never see the damage. The man hadn’t climbed the stairs in months and most likely, would never come up to the second floor—ever. All thoughts of getting in trouble vanished. He would be alone soon, in a year maybe two. Aunts, uncles, mothers and fathers, all will be gone and he will be alone.

Of course, he’d always have friends. Bryan would be there for him. Even the next seven years while his friend was away at school, they would email often. Steve relaxed. He was relieved to find nothing unusual about the sleepiness that filled his head. He smiled as his consciousness slipped away, his last thoughts a vision of Nora in low-cut jeans.

*          *          *

Steve inspected the well-set dinner table. The place settings looked familiar, but the chairs did not. Ornate carvings of flowers and vines covered the chairs that were made of dark wood. He pulled one out from the table expecting to see chiseled lions feet, but instead found metal legs identical to the chairs in his own kitchen. In the center of the table sat a cooked ham and turkey, prepared exactly like one of Aunt Pat’s holiday feasts. A closer examination of the plates turned up the rose pattern that bordered their family’s good dishes, with the exception of Chinese symbols mixed within the green leaves and red pedals. Steve looked to the left, Aunt Pat was holding out a bowl of stuffing.

He studied the lines in her face, the gray color of her hair, and then looked deep into her eyes. For the moment, a pain deep within him vanished.

“Are you alive or dead in this dream?” he asked.

Pat didn't answer. She smiled warmly, handed him the bowl of brown stuffing, and disappeared. He turned, placed the bowl on the table, and noticed something odd. The stuffing’s color shifted to dark green. That didn't seem right. He bent over to examine the food; the stuffing had transformed into spinach. A ball of spinach leapt out, landed on his wrist and burrowed into his flesh. He jumped back, his wrist aching, and grabbed the back of his forearm. No visible entry wound existed, but a lump the size of a golf ball, just under the skin’s surface, moved up his arm. His flesh seared. Skin and veins stretched to accommodate the protuberance.

No inner voice spoke the words, the knowledge was divined him as if God had whispered it. If he could withstand the pain long enough for the mass to work its way up to his biceps, he would become successful. The lump moved painfully upward and his dream vision blurred.

Too much pain, he thought, too much for just the spinach. The awareness came gradually that the grip he had on his arm was compressing muscle clear to the bone. A few blinks cleared his dreamy vision; it was not his own hand clenching his arm, but that of another. He recognized the long dark fingers squeezing so desperately. It was Bryan's hand.

I can’t... I can't take it... I give up. Steve turned away and the dream faded.