FIGHT (26 page)
Authors: Brent Coffey
“It’s okay,” Bruce assured them. “I’m fine, and there’s no need to be alarmed at Mr. Adelaide’s presence. He actually saved my life,” he added, pointing to the dead man.
This news stunned Martha, but it didn’t surprise August.
Gabe squatted down, getting eyelevel with August:
“I know you don’t understand this, but you saved my life. Thanks, buddy. Can I have a high five?”
August shortchanged him a high five and threw his arms around Gabe’s neck instead, pressing Zoggy against the back of Gabe’s head. Gabe fought back tears, as he hugged the kid. Prying August off him, who didn’t want to let go, Gabe stood up and reached for the backpack. Covering his face with the surgical mask and putting on his shades, he said:
“See ya, my friend,” and ruffled August’s hair.
Outside Bruce’s room, Gabe unzipped the pack. He attached a regulator to an oxygen tank inside the backpack and mounted another one on a tank of nitrous oxide, the time tested anesthetic known as laughing gas. Spinning a tank wrench, he turned both tanks on full blast, quickly zipping the pack closed and trapping the gases. He was no longer afraid of Don hurting August: Don would soon expire. But he didn’t know what Don’s replacement would do, and he needed to disentangle August from the Adelaides forever… to communicate that the Adelaides were truly finished and that there’d never be another heir… and there was only one way of putting the nail in the Adelaide coffin.
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Don saw his goon approaching, wearing the backpack, the blue surgeon’s uniform, and dark shades… just like the guy had said on the phone. Don smiled, thinking the surgeon’s uniform was a hell of a disguise. He was eager for a firsthand account of the D.A.’s demise. He wanted details. He hoped for something juicy, something graphic, like Sandefur taking a scalpel in a trembling hand and punching holes in Bruce’s vitals like they were pin cushions. His approaching goon nodded his head with an air of confidence, indicating that everything was cool. His goon opened the last of the Roll’s passenger doors and sat directly beside Don, removing the backpack from his shoulders and placing it his lap.
“So what the fuck happened? And how many goddamn Staties were in there?” Don asked.
Still wearing his mask and shades, Gabe pulled a lighter out his pocket, flicked a flame, opened a zipper, and held the lighter inside the backpack… with both tanks inside spewing wide open.
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Bruce, Martha, and August heard the explosion.
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From the GI wing, Dr. Sandefur and Debby Fallon heard the explosion.
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The two-door Chevy Cavalier pulled to a stop, after a slow climb up the graveyard’s elevated path. It parked, with its left side mostly on the grass, allowing oncoming cars enough room to pass on the cemetery’s one lane road. August George Middleton and his new foster mom, Debby Fallon, got out and walked towards the tombstone… a small, unassuming headstone square at its base and curved on top… one paid for by a donation from the Hudsons. Debby had wanted to see Gabe for many years, especially after seeing him in the news. But she feared the mob would hurt him if she made contact. That had always been their leverage. Now, squeezing August’s hand, she stood quietly, reading the tombstone.
Gabriel Aaron Fallon. September 12
th
1980-June 15
th
2007. Son.
They quietly took in the calm scenery of Gabe’s spot among the orderly rows of graves, and both grasped for words, until she said:
“He never had a chance in this world.”
August knew she wasn’t talking to him. Still, she needed to know:
“It doesn’t matter that he never had a chance. It only matters that he fought back.”
They decorated his final resting place. In the center of Gabe’s grave was a wreath of purple and white roses, surrounded by smaller arrangements of flowers on each side. In the middle of the grave’s flowers sat Zoggy.
The End
I hope you enjoyed
FIGHT
as much as I did. This is my first novel, and writing it was truly a labor of love. I’ll consider this novel a success if my readers remember my characters’ struggles and bravery.
A quick word on facts is in order. First, most Mafia Families don’t require a son for survival. These days, most Godfathers freely select their successors, and Victor’s need for Gabriel only exists in the world between my ears. But given many mobsters’ emphasis on Family, the stretch isn’t wholly implausible. Second, Watertown is one of the safest towns in Massachusetts, and I deliberately chose it for the Filippos’ base of operations because no informed person would ever believe that prostitutes and murderers dominate its streets. Its reputation remains unblemished by my imagination. Third, while Boston proper certainly has the crime problems you’d expect, its violent crime rate has diminished greatly in recent years, and the connections I made between the mob and Boston’s police, doctors, and judicial system are fictional. As large cities go, it’s relatively safe, and its spirit is indomitable. That spirit was recently displayed by the heroic victims of the Boston Marathon bombings and their fight to return to normalcy.
Fourth, here’s a fact, and a truly tragic one at that. This novel was partly inspired by the sad, short life of Peter “Baby P” Connelly, a boy who was repeatedly neglected by England’s child care authorities during horrific bouts of abuse. You can learn more about him and needed reforms in Britain’s foster care system from the UK’s major dailies.
Speaking of facts, while writing I referenced many online sources about adoption law and the Baby Scoop Era. I won’t bore you with a list of sources, but, if you’re curious, a quick search online will likely uncover most of the sources that I used.
A note on terminology is also needed. Throughout this novel, I use “whore” to refer to women who work as prostitutes, but, in real life, many women are sexually trafficked involuntarily, and I would never want to add insult to injury by calling them names. I use “whore” strictly as a label for those characters in my novel that voluntarily assumed their work, and, as the author, let me assure you that all of my whores volunteered.
Finally, no novel would be complete without due credit. In no particular order, here are some of the many people that have helped me in important ways. Thanks to the Berea College Philosophy Department, especially ethicist Dr. Robert W. Hoag, for improving my writing skills. Thanks to my many supportive friends, Micah, Cody F, Cody A, Blayne (always!), Nathan, Billy, Miranda, Brandon, Victoria, Tiffany, Max, Doly, Jacob, Bressler, and many others for their constant companionship. Thanks to Dr. David Johnston, Dr. Kathleen Martin, Dr. Sandra J. Beck, Dr. Clare Fraser, Dr. Andrew Pearson, Dr. John D. Conklin, Dr. Irina Gagua, and the staff at both St. Joseph East and the University of Kentucky health care systems for more than I can say. Thanks to Lucas, and Scott, and David for Keithshire. Thanks to Dr. Tyler Sergent both for believing in this project and for encouraging me to write. Thanks to Dr. Joe Bagnoli for the chance. Eternal thanks to J. both for the fudge and for driving to the ends of the world for everyone, every time.
And thanks to Kay for reading this novel many times to edit it. (I couldn’t ask for a smarter editor, and I’m lucky to have worked with you.)
Thanks for reading. I hope I have the opportunity to tell you future stories.
Brent Coffey, Summer 2013, Significant Revisions: Winter 2013