We are supposed to strive toward freedom like rats on a wheel working for cheese. Time off for good behavior, they say. Parole is the goal—but when the unexpected release of a convict is deemed ‘reintegration into society,’ it all but implies that we have all been successfully rehabilitated the moment we walk out of the reinforced steel doors.
It’s all bullshit, of course. Just a way for the DA to be able to sleep at night, knowing that his inept office allowed yet another monster to slip through the hands of justice. Some poet somewhere probably wrote something deep to describe the cruelty of it, but I’ll settle for this: you can’t cure rabies with four walls and an armed guard. By then, the beast can’t even hear you. It doesn’t want to hear you. Why? It’s already imagining the uneven cadence of your heartbeat the moment it lunges for your throat.
Once tasted, blood is an impossible addiction to shake, unlike crack or heroin. The stain on your soul left by a death you commit yourself is incomparable to any other human disease. It corrupts your entire being. The aftermath paints the world gray. Crushing a man’s windpipe beneath your fingers or striking him down with a bullet you let loose marks the moment you decide to stop being human. Darkness consumes you, and even though a pretty social worker in a clinical lab coat tries to tell you to feel remorse...
You simply don’t. C’est la vie. That’s life.
“Mr. Vialle. Did you hear me?” An orderly waits by the door with a clipboard propped in the crook of his arm. “Detective Van Hallen for you.” He steps back to allow another man to enter the room.
It’s one of the interview rooms the prison uses for meetings with lawyers or impromptu so-you’ve-been-released well wishes from the cops. Whoever he is, this “detective” is tall. Graying black hair covers his head and matches the neatly trimmed beard around his mouth. Rather than look in my direction, he warily eyes the plastic chair placed on the other side of the metal table I’m already seated at. When he finally sits, he has to spread out his legs just to keep his knees from brushing the table’s underside.
“Good morning, Mr. Vialle,” he says, finally looking up. “I hope I’m not troubling you too much.” He makes a show of placing a battered, leather briefcase on the table. Then he takes his sweet time opening it and withdraws a rather sizeable file. Dante Vialle is printed on a sticker taped to the front of it. He makes sure I read the label before he opens the file and shuffles the pages inside it. “You have an...interesting record, to say the least, Mr. Vialle.”
I don’t answer. This jumpsuit itches. The fluorescent lights affixed to the ceiling are set to the highest setting on purpose—as is the fact that the heat is blasting, though Mr. Van Hallen has enough sense to pretend he doesn’t notice. Stupid pigs. You’d think they’d get tired of playing the same old tricks.
“Well, I personally wasn’t pulling for your release,” Van Hallen goes on. He frowns at something he reads on one of the pages in my file and begins to recite out loud. “Robbery. Arson. Attempted murder. Assault with a firearm. Assault with a deadly weapon. Felony assault. Possession with intent to sell. Kidnapping—”
“And yet, my current charge is ‘trespassing,’ detective,” I say. “A minor offense.”
He flushes, his jaw clenching. Mr. Van Hallen is one of a million. A carbon copy of the same cop to hound my trail since the day I first shoplifted candy from a Quick-Go Mart. They get off on the heroics—making the world a safer place. Little do they know that when you put down one rabid dog, two more are already ready to take its place.
Surprisingly, Mr. Van Hallen cuts right to the chase rather than climb onto a soapbox. “Vincent Stacatto. Ever hear of him?”
I shrug as best as I can despite the handcuffs that secure my hands to the table. “I can’t say that I have, detective.”
“Don’t worry,” Van Hallen assures me. “You’ll hear of him soon enough. While you were trading sexual favors for a few cigarettes in this jungle gym they call a prison, Vinny Stacatto’s been running roughshod all over your old territory.”
I smile without an ounce of hostility in my expression. “I’d say my ass is worth a lot more than a few fucking cigarettes, detective.”
Van Hallen grunts. “Let’s not play around, Vialle. While your impending release certainly is no cause for celebration...you have a chance to really do some good for this city.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. My eyes drift from Van Hallen to seek out the clock hanging on the wall beyond his head. Twenty minutes.
“Oh, I don’t know about that, detective. I can think of a few good things the city might be able to do for me, though.”
Van Hallen struggles to keep his composure. I recognize him from the slew of pigs the DA paraded in and out during my sentencing hearing. Their spiel had pretty much followed the same lines. This man is dangerous—we may not have evidence that he’s dangerous, but mark my words. He’s dangerous. How much had the commissioner had to bribe him to come here on his hands and knees?
“Twelve murders,” Van Hallen starts. “Three counts of extortion. Human trafficking. Those are the crimes we suspect Stacatto of committing this month alone.”
I extend my fingers, observing them in the blinding light. “Sounds like you’ve been busy, detective.”
“This isn’t a fucking game,” Van Hallen snarls. He’s playing the bad cop routine without his “good cop” wingman. It’s an amusing effort. I smile again and watch as his face becomes an alarming shade of red. “Let’s try another name, huh?” he suggests. “Mathew ‘Mack’ Spigotti? Arnold Mackenzie?”
“Mackenzie...Mackenzie...” I raise an eyebrow and meet the detective’s gaze head-on. “Hm...nope, doesn’t ring a bell.”
“So, all those years you ran around with those two in the streets never left an impression, huh? What about when you fought for Dino Mulligan?”
“Must be all those favors for cigarettes I had to earn,” I say coldly. “My memory’s a little fuzzy.”
“Okay,” Van Hallen spits. He reshuffles his papers and tries again. “Espisido Vialle. You’ve got to recognize at least one of those names.”
“One of them,” I admit, my entire body tensing the same way the hackles rise on a bulldog when someone gets too close to its territory. His mentioning of Espi is a dangerous game to play. The bastard knows it. He doesn’t make eye contact this time.
“You wouldn’t be threatening me, detective,” I say, keeping my voice level. “Now would you?”
Van Hallen doesn’t answer me directly. He rummages through the pages of my file and surfaces with three pictures, which he sets out in a line, just out of my reach. One is of a scrawny kid with tousled black hair barely contained by the hood he has pulled over his head. His blue eyes stare off into the distance—it’s obvious he didn’t know the picture was being taken. There’s a cigarette sticking out of his mouth, and I scoff at the sight. Little fucker knew better than to court cancer with that shit. He’s grown up though, in the years since I’ve been gone. His face has filled out, the baby fat melted down to reveal our inherited bone structure. He has the makings of a mustache budding over his lip. The longer I stare at the picture, the more I can sense something tense inside of me. A human might refer to the emotion as guilt. I’ll write it off as irritation.
“Are your subordinates into kiddy porn?” I wonder, fixing the detective with an expression that makes him flinch. “That kid’s a minor.”
“He’s nineteen now, Vialle,” Van Hallen retorts, shaking his head. “Your little brother’s grown up some since you’ve seen him last. Sadly, he seems to have picked up some of your bad...habits as well.” He points to the remaining two pictures.
They both depict graffiti that I assume is on the brick walls of the buildings uptown in the city. One of them is an elaborate six-pointed star. The other, the stylized drawing of a man with glowing red eyes. Even in the grainy photo, I recognize the features.
“The kid’s quite an artist,” Van Hallen says. “Unfortunately, he doesn’t put his talent to good use. Remember Mackenzie? That man whom you claimed not to know? Well, your brother’s been running with him and his gang. The Gardai. Ringing any bells now?”
I flex my fingers, hearing the knuckles crack in unison. Arno really went with that fucking name? Go figure. The bastard loved showing off his so called “Irish” heritage. “Get to the point, detective,” I grit out, my eyes on the slowly moving clock.
Van Hallen flashes a grin of his own. “This one,” he taps the picture depicting the painted man, “was found this morning on a building deep in Stacatto’s territory. That’s one of Mackenzie’s tactics, as I’m sure you know. He sends men to mark areas he intends to hit—but if he goes after Stacatto...it could turn ugly. I don’t think you’d want your little brother in the middle of it.” His voice lowers an octave. The bastard might actually give a damn—which is why his precinct was desperate enough to come crawling to me.
“Sorry, Detective,” I say, “I’m not taking any last requests.”
Van Hallen has the nerve to seem pissed, though we both knew what my answer would be. “I’ll keep in touch,” he warns while tucking the photos back into my file. “It’s inevitable that you’ll be back here within the month. Dogs like you don’t escape the pound for too long. In fact, I’d give it a week.”
“And let’s remember why this dog got loose in the first place,” I throw back. The handcuffs click against the table’s surface when I lean forward, holding Van Hallen’s gaze. To his credit, the old man doesn’t look away. Yet. There’s a twitch in his jaw, however. A bead of sweat forming on his brow. I’ve been told that my eyes are soulless or some shit. Intimidating. Once you kill a few men, your eyes stop being just brown or blue apparently. Shadows lurk inside them. Evil, they call it. Some days I can even see it there myself. Van Hallen is no fool, and when I allow him to break the eye contact, he quickly gathers up his briefcase and shoves my file inside it.
“A mistake like that won’t happen again,” he grunts. “So, count your fucking blessings, Vialle.”
“Mistake...” I chew on the word. “Is that what they call it when an attorney for the DA has been convicted of...what was it?” I snap my fingers as if I’m searching for the right word. “Witness tampering? And now every case that attorney so much as coughed on is being thrown out left and right. Let’s just count our lucky stars that the bastard happened to work on mine.”
Van Hallen glowers. “I’ll be waiting for when you screw up,” he promises. “It’s only a matter of time, Kitty.”
I chuckle at the reference to my old nickname. “Do you want to know why they called me that?” I wonder, flashing the detective a wink. “It’s because I always liked to play with my food.”
I don’t know if it’s my tone or my expression that has Van Hallen backing away to the door of the room. He raps on the door, and a guard opens it.
“I’ll be watching, Vialle,” he calls back before shuffling into the hall.
I smile wide and nod. “I’ll be sure to give you and your boys a hell of a good show then.”
Ten minutes later I’m wearing a state-issued gray tee shirt and a pair of jeans, standing in the lobby of the prison amongst the armed guards. The clerk behind the counter eyes me up and down. Then he clears his throat and reads the statement he holds in his hand. “Dante Vialle. One cross, silver. One wallet, leather. Fifty-four dollars, twenty cents.” He places each item onto the counter as he reads them off the list. Then he packs everything into a plastic bag and slides it in my direction. “Sign here.”
He hands me a pen, and I sign on the dotted line of the release papers. Just like that, I’m a free man. The world seems to know it. Rain lashes at the windows and the sky is a weeping, pissed-off gray. Another vicious dog escapes the kennel, but a part of me wonders something right along with Detective Van Hallen: how long will it last?
I’m determined to make a game of it.
I feel nothing when I take the plastic bag of my belongings and head for the main doors. I’m patted down one last time and then turned loose onto a world that seems eager to spit me right back out.
Rain slicks my hair when I step through the electronic doors. “There’s a shuttle up ahead,” a guard tells me, pointing down a winding road that seems to lead nowhere.
I shrug. “Thanks.”
Thunder rumbles in the distance when I finally clear the main gates. I’m free—but that statement takes on a bitter edge. I’m free, while Espi fucks around with Arno and his stupid schemes. I’m free, while my name has become nothing more than insult slung by some aging pig.
I’m free...to return to a city claimed by a new monster, entirely. A sane person might feel something like regret for the five years lost behind bars. An animal would relish the challenge.
Vincent Stacatto. I taste the name on my tongue while my boots strike the pavement in tandem. My mouth quirks up into something that might be a smile. Or a snarl.
Due to the result of some stupid technicality, Dante Vialle is free, heading toward a city that only held his memory in the bowels of a police station. Though not for long. Van Hallen gave me a week. I’d take him up on that, gladly.
Daddy’s home, I thought, picturing the world I’d left behind—all those things I hated encased in concrete. Daddy’s home, motherfuckers...