Synopsis: "My name is Mick Mason, and today's the day that I die." Follow this Irishman and his brother through their rise in the mafia life of New York. Sarcastic and intense, this definitely should be read.
My name is Mick Mason, and today's the day that I die. I've always heard it's lonely at the top, but I wouldn't know; I've never been there. I'm still what you would call 'amateur' in crime, but I got a good crew. I've always hoped that someday we would make it big. Sitting here behind my mahogany desk in my dark, makeshift office, I look at the half-empty whiskey bottle in my left hand. No wonder I'm not shaking more. Shit's liquid courage. God knows I need it for what I'm about to do. In my right hand, I grasp one hell of a handgun. 50-calibre Israeli-made Desert Eagle with an extended magazine reaching 10 centimetres out the bottom, which doesn't matter if you only have one bullet in it. It's always been one of my favourites, my Eagle, and that's why I choose to die by it. I don't know why I bothered to wear a suit, but I did. Seems fitting for a funeral. Suicide never seemed so inviting. Sitting here in the dim light, my gun gripped tight against my palm, I can't help but wonder how the hell I got here.
My brother Casey and I first came to the States in 1999, mainly because we hopped the wrong ship at the wrong time. It was going to be our biggest break yet. Before that, we were pickpockets, con men, really small stuff. Then Casey got word of this small shipment of obsidian coming from the states. So we sneaked aboard one night with black masks and burlap sacks. Once below deck, we began stuffing. After a good ten minutes of filling our bags, I noticed the black dust covering my hands.
Casey, this isn't obsidian. I observed aloud, my awareness growing by the moment.
"Yeah, then what's it?" He always got mad when i pointed out his mistakes, so he was ready to defend himself. This time, though, he was just way too wrong to pretend to be right.
It's coal, you stupid gack! I hurled a brick of it at his head. It hit him and bounced off. He barely blinked. Apparently his is as thick skulled as I'd always called him.
I stared at the dark pile in front of me. Then everything else got darker, followed by a metallic drum.
"Mickey?" He asked curiously. I knew what he was gonna ask, but I figured I'd humor him.
What, Casey? I responded in the same curious tone.
"They locked us in, didn't they?"
That they did, Casey.
The trip over the Atlantic was hell. Fourteen days trapped. Trapped on the boat, mind you. They let us out after fifteen minutes of Casey's yelling and their laughing. But they refused to alter their course to take us back, so next thing we know, we're in New York harbor. We smelled and were dirty as hell, and with no US currency, we decided that we needed some. Seeing a busy-looking man walking down the sidewalk, I told Casey to follow my lead. I walked casually as if to pass him, but bumped into him as I passed. My hand swiftly grabbed the square in his coat pocket and I flicked it to Casey.
Sorry, mate.
"Nonsense. My fault." He replied in an Americanized Russian accent. We went our separate ways. I rejoined Casey to see our score.
What'd we get?
"Nothin', Mick," Casey answered.
Come now, we have to have gotten something.
"Nope, nothing."
Who the feck keeps nothing in their wallet?
"It's a map, Mick"
What's a map?
"His wallet -- it's a map of New York."
I...I don't follow.
"You pulled a map out of his pocket!"
Aye, I guess I'm a bit out of practice.
"Yeh, let's just go exchange what we got with us for US."
You're right. I... oh for christ's sake, you're coddin' me!
"What, Mick?" Casey was suddenly concerned and curious. He had reason.
The hardchaw took m'wallet! Hey!
We chased after the man, who didn't notice our follow. Once we caught up with him, I slowed my gait, hoping to think of a clean way to do this. Casey passed me, in full sprint, and leveled the man. It's not like I could stand there and watch, so I picked him up, grabbed my wallet back, then pucked him one across the jaw. We took his briefcase and the cash from his wallet, then bolted. By then, a crowd had formed, and we didn't want to get arrested ten minutes into our stay.
The cash got us a room at a motel, and we had enough to last us about a week there. Going through my wallet, it was almost completely cleaned out. The gom only left my condom. We thought we broke even until we rafted his case. We stared at bags and bags of white powder intricately placed in the case.
"What'sit, Mick?"
'S snow, Casey. Our problems are solved.
"But 'taint cold, how'sit snow?"
I ignored him. I knew it wasn't snow, but it's what it was called. That night, we took to the streets and began our trade. Our first bag sold for about 2 grand. With that, I went to the pawn shop. There, in a stainless steel case propped open for display, was my new favourite toy. It was my Eagle. I paid the nice man and left with a smile on my face. Our new life had started. We quickly adopted this business and made good quick, buying more with the money we made, then selling it over again. Casey had always been an idiot, but he was friggin' Rainman when it came to this. He knew every dime we spent and made. Before I knew it, we were in our own office.
We had a crew running, too. There was Dirty Jim. We hired him because he would rig boxing matches just about nightly. He also knew just about every friggin language in the world. Kid George was his nephew. A feeble guy whose one claim to fame was, yep, ya guessed it, cooking. Then there was Big Tom. This black beast stood six foot four and weighed more than the rest of us combined. Finally, there was Frankie Fruitcake. Poor bastard passed out drunk once and woke with a tattoo on his ass, "Joey was here." Why he tells everyone that is beyond me. Anyway, my crew and I were on the way up, setting up deals with other families and clans, trading products and such. My fatal mistake came the day Jim got us a deal with some Russians out of Queens. It was too good to be true. They were gonna pay us triple for some coke, and I got greedy.
The meet was at an old warehouse by the shipyards. Five of us were there. Jim had stayed home. We sat there, smoking cigarettes, waiting. A while passed before George's pager went off.
"I got a call to make, boys." He said, walking outside. Several minutes later, he stepped back in the door. "Come out a minute, Micky, I gotta ask ya something." I stood and began to follow. The others stood too. "Nah, just Mick." He said to them. They looked to me for approval.
It's alright, lads, he probably just wants to know if Frankie likes him.
They laughed and sat back down, and I exited with George. There, outside, were several black vans and armed men wearing black. One in a white suede coat approached me.
"Mick Mason, you sorry son of a bitch. You had no idea who I was, then, did you?"
Apologies, mate, but unless you're a Czar or something, I still don't really know who you are.
"You stole my product. You jumped me in public."
Narrows it down a bit, but still doesn't quite ring a bell.
"You left your identification."
It all came back. The pick, the fight, the case. The empty wallet. He kept my ID after all these years.
Well, you left my condom.
He hit me hard in the stomach and dragged me into his white van. George, him, and me were all in the back seat. That poof and his uncle sold us out. George told the driver where my office was and how to get there. I was thinkin' that I was pretty much done for.
But then, a loud crash as I flew against the wall of the van. In the confusion, I was pulled from the wreck by a huge beast that lifted me like I was nothin'.
Was wonderin' when you'd get here Tom.
He put me in the back of our Cadillac that we had taken to the meet and we booked it out of there. He gave me my Eagle and some tissue for my now-bleeding nose. Several disorienting minutes later, our car skidded to a stop in front of our building. We stampeded inside and caught Jim coming down the stairs. I leveled my gun.
"Oh bloody fu-"
The ferocious crack of the gun sent Jim backwards, up a few stairs. Then he rolled down to the bottom, landing in a puddle that had leaked from the roof above. Casey paused and looked at him, sputtering blood as he rolled in the murky water.
"Hey Mick! I get it now!"
I pounded up the stairs ahead of him.
Get what, Casey?
"The Dirty Jim thing! 'Cuz we knew he was dirty, like a fib, but now he's dead in a puddle, so he's still dirty!"
I was momentarily annoyed, then smiled, continuing up the stairs to our room. I was first in, then Frankie, then Casey, then Tom. We slammed the door and Tom stood against it. We knew they were coming soon. I went into my office and closed the door behind me. Hesitating only momentarily, I opened my liquor cabinet and grabbed an aged bottle of bourbon. I threw on my suit jacket over my shirt and plopped myself in my chair. I picked up my Eagle and manually chambered one round. One piece of lead that would right all that's gone wrong. One bullet that would both save and end my world.
This is about where we started.
I breathe deep and enjoy my drink. As I finish, I take both hands on my gun. I place it under my chin and count my breaths.
1....
2....
3....
4....
Damn I can't do it. I stand and walk out of my office. The Russians are pounding on the door with Big Tom keeping them out. I point my gun at him.
Tom...move.
He steps aside and the door flies open. Russian mobsters pour in the narrow opening and are quickly cut down by my crew. Tom's pumping away at his shotgun. Frankie's squeezing off rounds one by one at head level. Casey's yelling like an idiot as he fires from the hip. I wait.
More and more get in. Frankie's the first to get hit. He takes one through the chest and drops noiselessly. Tom goes much harder. After several shots in him, he falls swinging his shotgun. I still wait.
It's been nice knowin' ya, brother!
No answer. I turn and see Casey already on the ground. I raise my hands in submission, my gun still in my right. They surround me and tell me to get on my knees. I only need a moment longer. Finally, a flash of white. The Czar enters the room in his suede coat. Our eyes meet. I drop my hands and fire the one bullet I have. He falls flat on his back.
My name is Mick Mason, and today's the day I die.
Re: Eulogy
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