The Lion’s Mail Order Menage

“And I guess you know about our dads.  Sh*tty factory jobs and sometimes mob workers.  Just the runners.  Just the sh*tty kind of stuff.  You ask me, they deserve what they got.  Ain’t no honor in the things they did.  No reason they should have found a life of luxury.”

“No,” Caleb said in a voice that felt too strained to speak, “I guess not.”

“But Caleb, none of that has to do with us, you understand me?  Not a damn thing.  We ain’t our fathers and there isn’t a chance in hell we’d ever fall for anything close to our moms.  Only time that’d happen is if hell froze over and seeing as I don’t believe in hell, I think we’re safe.”

“But are we better?  Look at what we do.  Are we better than them?”

“Yes, we surely are.  And you better figure it out quick because we’ve got work to do and we can’t do it with you like this.”

*   *   *

“Geno!  Yo, Geno!  It’s done, just like you asked.”

“Boys!  Of course you did.  You always come through for your old man, don’t you?  What can I say, I’m like a proud papa.  Couldn’t have wished for anything better had I been blessed with my own sons before my Maria passed, may she rest in peace.”

“Well, thank you, sir, that means a lot.  Means a whole lot, especially to Caleb here.”

“That so?  What’s the matter, Caleb?  Why you looking so down in the dumps?  You haven’t looked this bad since that first day you stepped into the light and saw what sort of sh*t your buddy had gotten you tangled up with.  What’s troubling you, son?”

“Nothing.  I don’t know.  Just a crisis of self, I guess.  It’ll pass.”

“Sh*t, a crisis of self?  You’re a thoughtful boy, aren’t you?  Better than most.  Anything I can do to help?  Just tell your cranky old boss and he’ll do the best he can.”

Caleb had to laugh.  He couldn’t help it.  Geno, one of the most notorious mobsters in New York City, was acting like an honest to god father to him, more so than his biological one had ever thought to do.  You either had to laugh or cry, right?  And Caleb wasn’t much for crying.  In his experience it didn’t do a whole lot of good. 

He sat down tiredly in one of the seats across from Geno and the men who had been hired with the specific task of protecting him and Tyler pulled up a chair right beside him, leaning back precariously on the back two legs.  They were all holed up a dark little Italian restaurant and sometimes bar.  It was starting to get late, or at least late enough in the day so that the place should have been slammed, and there was no doubt that it would have been, except that when Geno came to visit, the whole place was closed for business except for him and the people he chose to let in.

He had the run of the place and he took advantage of it whenever he felt so inclined.  Luckily for the proprietors, however, he was a generous man and he always made sure that they were more than adequately compensated.  It got to where the owner, a greedy little man that always reminded Caleb a little bit of a rat, preferred closing down for Geno and his people than staying open for a slammed, packed Saturday night. 

He knew he was going to make more money that way and so he was willing to take on the risk of having a restaurant full of gangsters.  True, he did have a tendency to look more than a little bit concerned when he took the time to think about who exactly it was he was serving, but for the most part he was too busy groveling and trying to ingratiate himself to the men he thought would be able to raise his station in life. 

Caleb could see him even now, flitting from one person to the next, some of them responding politely and some of them swatting him away like he was nothing more than an annoying fly buzzing around their heads.  Geno snapped his fingers in the servile man’s direction, motioning for him to bring drinks, and fast.  Then he turned back to Caleb, a look on his face that made it very clear he wasn’t just going to let things go because he didn’t have an immediate answer.

“Well boy?  What’s the word?  Someone messing with you these days?  Just tell me who he is and I’ll take care of it.  You don’t even gotta say it out loud.  Just whisper it in my ear, write it down, even.  I’ll take care of it, no problem.  One of the perks, ain’t it?”

“Thanks, Geno, really.  It isn’t anything though.  I kind of just realized that.  It’s no big deal.  It’s not important anymore.”

“Hey!  That’s good to hear!  Sounds like that earns you a drink, boy.  Here, bottle of bourbon, best one you got and bring three glasses.  Tonight we drink.”

The ratman owner scurried towards them with a massive bottle of liquor and three rocks glasses, a frightened looking boy following behind him with a bucket of ice.  They plopped the accoutrements down on the table, the boy hauling ass towards the back of the restaurant and what he clearly thought of as safety and the ratman remained where he stood, the stupidest of grins on his face. 

It was like he expected to be included in the conversation, like by bringing the drinks he had somehow earned passage into the secret club.  Little did he know that it took a hell of a lot more than a bottle of bourbon to get that particular privilege.  

Geno looked up at him with a dark expression, which the ratman was unfortunately too dense to pick up on the meaning of.

“Did you need something?”

“Oh, no, no sir, but thank you so much for asking me.  What a great man to ask a thing like that.”