Cormac
When we get back to New York, I try and make sense of the drive home. First it was like she was angry with me, then there was that lying about getting undressed, and then we were laughing together like teenagers on a date. It doesn’t make any sense to me. In my experience, women are always straightforward. You take them out and buy them some presents, and a few hours later, you’re writhing around in bed with them. There’s none of this hot-and-cold back-and-forth stuff. I guess, with any other woman, I wouldn’t put up with it. If I was out with a woman and she randomly started lying, or slapped me, or something, I’d just leave her right there in the restaurant. But for some reason it’s like I’m willing to take this stuff from Scar. Like she’s special or something.
“There’s so much going on inside of you,” I say. “A hundred different emotions making you crazy.”
She pulls to a stop near a payphone, like I asked her to; we managed to find some loose change wedged between the seats. “That’s an incredibly offensive thing to say,” she says, doing her stern routine now. It’s like she has one hundred different masks, one for each of her one hundred emotions.
“How is that offensive?” I ask wearily, stomach growling. We haven’t eaten all day.
“You’re saying that because I’m a woman I’m going crazy with emotions, and—”
I take the change and step from the car, not in the mood for this. Sometimes I just wish she’d laugh and smile and stay laughing and smiling instead of turning a switch and getting moody.
The payphone is covered with graffiti and one of the windows is cracked, the pattern reminding me of the time I saw my old man smash a store window with his fist. Thinking of that makes me ache in the chest, though not like I’m going to start crying or anything that dramatic. Just aching, since dad’s never going to punch another window, stare down another man, drink another whisky, or take another woman to bed.
Moira answers the phone after a couple of rings. “Cormac?” she asks before I’ve ever had a chance to speak.
“Yeah. We’re back. Don’t know how successful this lying low stuff was, but I can’t really discuss it over the phone. You still at the place?”
“Yes, I’m at Ra—”
“Moira. Don’t say it. Are you still there?”
“Yes, yes, I’m here.” She sounds tipsy and her voice is choked, as though she’s been crying. Moira’s half a child, I remind myself. Nineteen years old and brilliant. A student of literature. But in so many ways, she’s half a child. “You can come by. Ral—He’s still out of town, okay?”
“Are we good to go?” Scar has her professional voice on now. She’s staring ahead with her lips pouted and her eyebrows furrowed. I get the sense that she wants to pretend everything that’s happened between us never happened at all. She wants the kisses and the almost-fucking to drift away. Maybe I could do that if the memory of her wasn’t so goddamn fresh. I keep thinking of her squirming as I touch her, writhing and moaning. I keep thinking about how rock-hard I was, how gorgeous she looked with her sea-green eyes flitting open and closed, and how her breasts bounced up and down. Just thinking about it now is getting me hard.
I clear my throat. “We’re good to go, Agent O’Bannon.”
She opens her mouth as though to shoot back with a clever comment, but then grimaces and starts the car.
Soon, we’re back in Ralph’s penthouse, being patted down by the armed guards. The plan upon leaving New York was to lie low and make Mickey think we’d given up, but now that we’re back, it seems like we haven’t accomplished anything at all. Scar has made some calls, but like she said, the calls might’ve been to people who’re working with Mickey. But as we walk toward the living room, Scar is in front of me. I look at her ass in the tight blue jeans and I know the trip wasn’t a complete waste. I had my fingers inside Scar. I had my lips on hers. And I’m pretty damn sure that one of these days, maybe even tonight, I’m going to be inside of her. She can come at me with all the pouting and sarcasm she wants, but when it comes down to it, her panting doesn’t lie. She wants it just as much as I do.
Moira is sitting on the couch, wrapped in a blanket that reaches up to her chin. Her eyes are locked on the TV, which is playing The Lion King. I remember, when I was a teenager who cared about nothing more than cars and girls, coming home and finding Moira watching that movie for the tenth time in a row. When I asked her why she didn’t watch something else, she said, “Because the characters in this are so complex I think I’ll need to watch it ten times more to get to grips with them.” She was a little kid, nine or ten, speaking like that.
Scar and I sit on the couch next to her.
“So,” I say, but Moira holds up her finger.
“Ten minutes,” she says. “There’s ten minutes left.”
On the table, a book with the title Analyzing Poetry: How the Wind Breaks the Leaves rests facedown, spine broken. Three coffee mugs sit around it, as though standing sentinel, and an ashtray with four burned-out cigarette stubs sits beside the arrangement. Moira only ever smokes when she’s stressed, I remember.
I look to Scar, hoping to share a moment with her—a sort of, “Sorry about this, but we need to watch the movie,” moment. But she still has her professional face on, pouting at Simba as though he’s a suspect. I sigh and turn back to the movie. A mobster, a literature student, and an FBI agent sitting in a congressman’s penthouse watching The Lion King. It’s like the start of a bad joke.
When the movie ends, Moira switches off the TV and turns on four corner lamps, all with the same handset.
“The FBI could do with a few toys like that,” I say, making sure to keep my voice low, just in case the guards in the hall can hear. Scar doesn’t laugh; she doesn’t even smile. She’s gone into full-on ice mode now.
“You don’t have to whisper,” Moira says. “They can’t hear us in here. And even if they could, they’re Ralphie’s personal guards. They’ve been with him for years. They’re not allowed to do anything that’d get us in trouble.”
“They seem to like you,” Scar says. “On our way in, one of them mentioned something about you being a sweet girl.”
Moira beams. “Sometimes I read them my short stories.”
I shift uncomfortably. The idea of Moira reading to these suited assholes makes me wonder what else they want from her. The mobster part of me wants to go into the hallway and smash the nose of the first one I see, but then I remind myself that this is the only really safe place in New York. We were careful about coming here. If we’re lucky, Mickey’s men have already staked this place out and ticked it off their list. If we’re not ... but I can’t think about that, not right now.
“Wine?” Moira asks. Before anyone can respond, she’s on her feet, leaving the room, whistling to herself.
“Do you think it’s safe to stay here?” I ask Scar.
She shrugs. “As safe as any other place in New York. Probably safer.”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
I want to say something else. I’m not sure what. Something that will bring back the giggling Scar from the journey home. But she’s carved from rock.
Thankfully, Moira brings in some food as well as wine—a collection of cheese, crackers, and fruit on a large platter. It’s a fancier meal than Scar and I have been eating over the past few days, but I’m so hungry right now that I don’t care. For a few minutes, Scar and I are lost to the world, devouring the food and drinking down greedy gulps of wine. Even Scar can’t keep up her serious performance during this, though afterward she goes right back to it.
When we’re done eating, we sit around the table, me on the chair and the women on the couch. It’s clear Moira has something she wants to say from the way she’s fidgeting. Ever since she was a little kid, she’s always fidgeted when she has something she wants to say. Even now, sometimes I’ll find her fidgeting over a book only to discover she’s got a literary theory she’s just burning to tell somebody about.
“So dad is dead.” She says this brashly, trying to pretend it has no effect on her, but the choking noise she makes toward the end of the sentence robs this of any believability. “Dad is dead and our family needs a new Don. Mickey’s just taken over, like a rat. Well, here’s what I think—and I know dad would want this too—here’s what I think. Cormac, you have to do whatever it takes to become Don. You have to kill and fight and do anything it takes to get our family back. We can’t let Mickey rule the family. I remember when we were kids and he’d always try and put his hand up my skirt, even though we’re cousins. He’s a freak. An evil freak. And I saw him kill dad and—no, I won’t cry. But that’s it, Cormac. You need to become Don, okay?”
Nodding, I say, “I agree. Of course I agree.”
A pause stretches as we wait for Scar to speak. She leans forward, elbows on knees, looking like she must when she’s interviewing a suspect. She has her hair tied back in a ponytail now. I try and remember what she looked like on her back, moaning, but it’s difficult to square the woman in front of me and the woman in bed.
“So you’re going to sit here in front of an FBI agent and discuss waging war on New York City? You’re going to sit there and talk about killing and stealing in the streets of the city, is that it?” She squeezes her hands together, her knuckles turning red from the pressure. “I tried to tell you in the supermarket.” She stares at me. “But you didn’t want to listen. Well, you’ll listen now. This is a chance, for both of you, to get out of this life. This is a chance for you, Moira, to go someplace where you don’t have to be part of crime, even if you are on the fringes.” She turns to Moira with more emotion than I understand, since the two of them only met less than a week ago. “Don’t you see? You can get out, really out. You can be free. You don’t have to live a life of violence anymore. You don’t have to live a life of—of this, of hiding out in some old man’s apartment.” Scar flinches as soon as the words are out of her mouth. Before she can correct herself, Moira is on her feet, a forefinger aimed down at Scar’s face.
“How dare you!” she snaps. “How dare you lecture me on what I should do with my life! Ralphie is not an old man! He is my boyfriend! And how dare you come into our family and tell us how to—tell us how to—”
Scar is on her feet, arms wrapped around Moira. I feel like I’ve just fallen into a different dimension. Scar and Moira, holding each other like sisters-in-law.
“I’m sorry,” Scar says softly. “I didn’t mean it, Moira. Not the part about Ralph. I’m sorry.”
Once everybody’s calmed down, Moira and Scar return to their seats.
Scar goes on in a softer tone, afraid to upset Moira, I guess. “Let me tell you the truth, all right? I like you, Cormac. I really like you. If this was a different life ... but listen, it doesn’t have to be like this. If you left the life, we could go on a date. We could go to the movies. Whatever.” She speaks awkwardly, trying to unite her ice queen performance with these intimate words.
I close my eyes, trying to think it all over. I see me and Scar walking by a river someplace, me dressed in a suit or a sweater or something normal men wear when they’re on normal dates, and Scar looking sweet beside me. I think of us sitting down to watch TV in an apartment we share. I think about going to a job as a mechanic or something—living a normal, mundane life. And then I think about Mickey sitting at dad’s desk, giving orders to dad’s men, and I know it can’t be that way.
“I have to become Don,” I say. “There’s no other option.”
Scar growls and jumps to her feet. “Moira, did you make up bedrooms for us?”
“Down the hall to the left,” Moira says quietly.
Scar leaves the room, and I pick at the platter, eating the last of the crackers.
“I really like her,” Moira says after a long pause. “She’s nice. I think she likes me too. But I don’t know why. Maybe I’ll go and talk with her.”
Moira leaves. I sit, staring at the TV. About an hour later, Moira returns.
“Good talk?” I ask.
“We spoke about lots of things. I think we’re going to be friends.”
Moira picks up her poetry book and ignores me. I stand up and head toward Scar’s room. I don’t want her to be angry with me—that’s the plain truth. I don’t want this woman, who I’ve wanted for so long, to hate me. And yet I know that if I go down this road, that might be the only option left to her.
I find that Moira has set us up in opposite rooms. The only way I know this is because one door is slammed firmly and the other is wide open. I go into my room and sit on the edge of the bed, thinking about being Don. I was always going to be Don, I knew that, but I thought it’d be when I was in my forties or maybe even fifties. I didn’t think it’d be thrust on me like this. I definitely didn’t think that it’d involve fighting for my place. I was going to be given the title; now I have to kill for it, bleed for it, and maybe even die before I get it.
I stand up, fists clenched, shaking not so much with anger but with the desire to take what’s mine—to do what I have to do.
When I get to Scar’s door, I don’t knock. Knocking is for men who want to be turned away. Knocking is for men who want to lie alone in bed thinking about the chance they missed. I push open the door and find Scar sitting at the desk. Both bedrooms are identical: bare desk, wall with some landscape piece of art hanging from it, and well-made double bed. The corner lamp throws light across the room, making Scar’s shadow twice as tall as her when she turns to face me.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
I close the door behind me.
“I’m going to be Don,” I say, walking across the room to her. I feel half-mad. I must look it, too, if the way she’s staring at me is anything to go by. She starts panting again, her sea-green eyes going wide, and bites her lip. I don’t know how she thinks she can look at me as sexily as that and not have me do anything about it. “And I’m going to fuck you, Scar. You want it. I want it. Let’s stop messing around.”
I pull her to her feet and stare down at her. She trembles when I bring my hand to her leg, sliding it up the inside of her thigh, toward her pussy.
“Maybe I don’t want it.” But she doesn’t take a step back. When I reach her pussy, she lets out a long, shaking sigh. “Maybe I don’t want anything to do with you.”
“Then ask me to step away.” I start rubbing her pussy, pressing my fingers down firmly and rubbing side to side. Already, I can feel the wetness through her jeans. “Just ask me to stop. I’m not going to rape you, Scar. So if you ask me to stop, I’ll walk away. But let me tell you something.” I lean close to her. Her eyes are locked on mine, like she can’t look away. “If you ask me to walk away now, I’ll never fuck you. This is it.”
Surprise—and is that fear?—flash across her face. “That’s—” She moans, closing her eyes. “That’s—” She closes her legs around my hand, as if to trap me there. “That’s not what I want at all.”
I push her powerfully but gently back onto the bed, then grab her jeans, pulling them down to reveal her pale, lithe legs.
If I’m going to be the goddamn Don, I need to be able to fuck my woman. It doesn’t matter if one day she might be chasing me. It doesn’t matter if one day this might bite us in the ass. All that matters is my cock pressing urgently against my jeans, her legs, which she’s opening for me, and her panting so loud it fills the room.