(no subject)
Ficlet for rainpuddle13!
At her request, I have written a Rumrunner related ficlet. I think she's trying to guilt me up for the events of RR7. There's a cameo by her in this, as well. (Hope you like yourself, sweetiepie!) Anyways, here it is... Aldo's first (major) crime.
Smoke
The smoke woke Aldo in the middle of the night.
He sat up, coughing and panting, gasping for clear air. This happened several times a week. He was always shocked when he realized that the air he had been breathing in the entire time had been clean, and that the smoke was nothing but wisps of memory curling in his throat, choking him.
He sometimes wished that he had been with his parents. On bad days, he wished that Gisella had been with them instead, burning and choking her way to Heaven where she belonged, instead of rotting alive in this godforsaken city of dreams. But Gisella had been with him, and they had both been sick with some mild fever, and their parents had left and died in a final blaze of glory when their shiny new automobile’s brakes had gone out, sending them flying headlong into a factory.
His father had been so proud of that goddamn car. So completely fucking proud that he had gone and died in it, killing both his loves- his wife and his car- all in one fell swoop. He hadn’t even cared that he was leaving his only son, who wasn’t quite yet a man, with a man’s burden to bear. They didn’t yet have any family in the country, so he alone had to support his young sister, and put food on the table and keep the roof over their heads and clothing on their backs. It was harder than he had ever given his father credit for, and there were times that he understood why they had moved to this country.
Though he still sometimes remembered a warm and sunny childhood filled with ancient relatives and lots of food. He was sure there had been more to Italy than this, reasons for his parents to bring them to America, but early memories are selective. They had been here for eight years- he doubted Gisella even remembered the crowded journey over here, much less anything concerning their lives before. She was only ten, though she acted as though she were a hundred and the queen of this monarch-less society.
He slid out of bed, and went to the small kitchen, where he got a glass of water to sooth his throat, which was still insisting that it had been penetrated with the ghost smoke. There really wasn’t any reason to go back to bed, judging by the lightening of the sky. He would have to be at the factory before long.
He was sure that out there, there was some job that he would hate more than working in the factory, but he couldn’t quite imagine what it was. There was nothing enjoyable about the backbreaking, monotonous work or the mind-numbingly long hours. He knew that as soon as he found something that he could earn enough money to support himself and Gisella with, he would quit the factory job in a heartbeat.
Gisella spent her days studying with their elderly, widowed neighbor, Mrs. Wales. He felt bad that she didn’t get to be with girls her own age, but he just didn’t have the time or will to find her playmates.
Aldo was heading back to his room to begin to dress when he noticed the folded piece of plain brown paper on the ground near the front door. He hadn’t expected a message again so soon, it seemed like he had just finished the last errand that he had run for Abe.
He unfolded the paper, and found himself deciphering a messy scrawl to discover that he was expected to meet with Abe’s men late that night. He wondered if he should just allow Gisella to sleep alone in her room while he was gone, or if he should make her stay with Mrs. Wales. He decided that Gisella was a heavy enough sleeper that he didn’t really need to bother Mrs. Wales. The fact that he wouldn’t have to come up with some pitiful excuse that made him seem like he was just going out to have a good time was a definite advantage to this plan.
Two words summed up how he had ended up running errands for Abe, who controlled the blossoming crime scene in town.
Cynthia Gaertner.
She was the loveliest thing he had ever seen- all red hair and flirtatious giggles and barely hidden curves beneath silk dresses. He knew intellectually that a poor Italian boy struggling to survive would never gain the favor of one of the town’s most beautiful socialites, but intellect had nothing to do with the feelings that he had towards Cynthia. But his gaze had rested on her for too long one day, as he had been spying upon her as she shopped. He had caught the attention of her escorts- no wonder, as bulky and awkward as he was from the last spurt of growth that had put him at his adult size.
Cynthia had presumably never even noticed him.
But one of the escorts, a man slighter than Aldo but so much more imposing to the youth, had strolled over to him. Words had been exchanged, Aldo’s normally level temper had flared, and two thrown punches and one drawn pistol later, Aldo had agreed to do some footwork.
This had been two months before his parents met their violent accidental deaths.
Now, a year later, he was beginning to realize that he was becoming slowly immersed in crime. The acts that had made him nervous at first- talking to these killers, carrying sums of money to and from illicit businesses, carrying messages from people to Abe and back again- seemed commonplace.
**
Aldo couldn’t stop his hand from shaking. He knew that he couldn’t have his hand shivering when he tried to shoot, but his hand was defying all higher authority. He was still somewhat dazed from the rapid chain of events that had lead him to crouching alone in an alleyway pointing a gun towards an open window.
He really hadn’t thought that anything this drastic happened. Sure, there were rumors and those sensational headlines, but in all honesty he had assumed that none of them were true. Well, he had known that people turned up dead, and that someone had killed them, but he had assumed that it would never be him, on either end. He wasn’t a part of it all. He was just an errand boy.
Except now he was an errand boy holding a Tommy gun and preparing himself to hail judgement down on a man.
He had never really given murder much thought before, one way or another, though his Catholic upbringing had rather stringent ideas on the subject. It was a bad thing, of course, but so was visiting a whorehouse and he’d never felt much guilt over that. Maybe murder would be the same thing- messy, quick, and impersonal, despite the overwhelming intimacy of the act.
Time, in defiance to the Aldo’s wishes, had apparently sped up, because he could now see his mark enter the living room of the small house.
Aldo remembered the advice of Abe’s men, and pointed the gun towards the open window, aiming between the paisley curtains that were billowing softly in the breeze. He watched as the man stripped off his jacket and removed his tie, and then pulled the trigger and held on.
The rain of bullets exploded violently, and Aldo saw through squinted eyes the man fall to the ground, tomato red stains marring the perfect white shirt. Aldo forced his clenched finger to loosen from the trigger, and saw that the man wasn’t going to be moving anytime soon. He held the warm gun beneath his trench coat, and began to walk quickly in the opposite direction.
He felt emptier, less satisfied than he normally did when leaving a whorehouse, as well as more apprehensive of what the consequences might be. But he felt none of the bone-crushing guilt he had expected. He didn’t feel as though the Devil had just sunk his claws into his soul, ready to rip it out for an eternity of torment. He just felt emptier, and perhaps a little sad.
He went back home, looked in on Gisella to make sure the little minx was actually asleep, and then went to bed.
When he awoke, panting in the night, it was not the smoke of the fire that filled his lungs, but rather that of a smoking gun.
At her request, I have written a Rumrunner related ficlet. I think she's trying to guilt me up for the events of RR7. There's a cameo by her in this, as well. (Hope you like yourself, sweetiepie!) Anyways, here it is... Aldo's first (major) crime.
Smoke
The smoke woke Aldo in the middle of the night.
He sat up, coughing and panting, gasping for clear air. This happened several times a week. He was always shocked when he realized that the air he had been breathing in the entire time had been clean, and that the smoke was nothing but wisps of memory curling in his throat, choking him.
He sometimes wished that he had been with his parents. On bad days, he wished that Gisella had been with them instead, burning and choking her way to Heaven where she belonged, instead of rotting alive in this godforsaken city of dreams. But Gisella had been with him, and they had both been sick with some mild fever, and their parents had left and died in a final blaze of glory when their shiny new automobile’s brakes had gone out, sending them flying headlong into a factory.
His father had been so proud of that goddamn car. So completely fucking proud that he had gone and died in it, killing both his loves- his wife and his car- all in one fell swoop. He hadn’t even cared that he was leaving his only son, who wasn’t quite yet a man, with a man’s burden to bear. They didn’t yet have any family in the country, so he alone had to support his young sister, and put food on the table and keep the roof over their heads and clothing on their backs. It was harder than he had ever given his father credit for, and there were times that he understood why they had moved to this country.
Though he still sometimes remembered a warm and sunny childhood filled with ancient relatives and lots of food. He was sure there had been more to Italy than this, reasons for his parents to bring them to America, but early memories are selective. They had been here for eight years- he doubted Gisella even remembered the crowded journey over here, much less anything concerning their lives before. She was only ten, though she acted as though she were a hundred and the queen of this monarch-less society.
He slid out of bed, and went to the small kitchen, where he got a glass of water to sooth his throat, which was still insisting that it had been penetrated with the ghost smoke. There really wasn’t any reason to go back to bed, judging by the lightening of the sky. He would have to be at the factory before long.
He was sure that out there, there was some job that he would hate more than working in the factory, but he couldn’t quite imagine what it was. There was nothing enjoyable about the backbreaking, monotonous work or the mind-numbingly long hours. He knew that as soon as he found something that he could earn enough money to support himself and Gisella with, he would quit the factory job in a heartbeat.
Gisella spent her days studying with their elderly, widowed neighbor, Mrs. Wales. He felt bad that she didn’t get to be with girls her own age, but he just didn’t have the time or will to find her playmates.
Aldo was heading back to his room to begin to dress when he noticed the folded piece of plain brown paper on the ground near the front door. He hadn’t expected a message again so soon, it seemed like he had just finished the last errand that he had run for Abe.
He unfolded the paper, and found himself deciphering a messy scrawl to discover that he was expected to meet with Abe’s men late that night. He wondered if he should just allow Gisella to sleep alone in her room while he was gone, or if he should make her stay with Mrs. Wales. He decided that Gisella was a heavy enough sleeper that he didn’t really need to bother Mrs. Wales. The fact that he wouldn’t have to come up with some pitiful excuse that made him seem like he was just going out to have a good time was a definite advantage to this plan.
Two words summed up how he had ended up running errands for Abe, who controlled the blossoming crime scene in town.
Cynthia Gaertner.
She was the loveliest thing he had ever seen- all red hair and flirtatious giggles and barely hidden curves beneath silk dresses. He knew intellectually that a poor Italian boy struggling to survive would never gain the favor of one of the town’s most beautiful socialites, but intellect had nothing to do with the feelings that he had towards Cynthia. But his gaze had rested on her for too long one day, as he had been spying upon her as she shopped. He had caught the attention of her escorts- no wonder, as bulky and awkward as he was from the last spurt of growth that had put him at his adult size.
Cynthia had presumably never even noticed him.
But one of the escorts, a man slighter than Aldo but so much more imposing to the youth, had strolled over to him. Words had been exchanged, Aldo’s normally level temper had flared, and two thrown punches and one drawn pistol later, Aldo had agreed to do some footwork.
This had been two months before his parents met their violent accidental deaths.
Now, a year later, he was beginning to realize that he was becoming slowly immersed in crime. The acts that had made him nervous at first- talking to these killers, carrying sums of money to and from illicit businesses, carrying messages from people to Abe and back again- seemed commonplace.
**
Aldo couldn’t stop his hand from shaking. He knew that he couldn’t have his hand shivering when he tried to shoot, but his hand was defying all higher authority. He was still somewhat dazed from the rapid chain of events that had lead him to crouching alone in an alleyway pointing a gun towards an open window.
He really hadn’t thought that anything this drastic happened. Sure, there were rumors and those sensational headlines, but in all honesty he had assumed that none of them were true. Well, he had known that people turned up dead, and that someone had killed them, but he had assumed that it would never be him, on either end. He wasn’t a part of it all. He was just an errand boy.
Except now he was an errand boy holding a Tommy gun and preparing himself to hail judgement down on a man.
He had never really given murder much thought before, one way or another, though his Catholic upbringing had rather stringent ideas on the subject. It was a bad thing, of course, but so was visiting a whorehouse and he’d never felt much guilt over that. Maybe murder would be the same thing- messy, quick, and impersonal, despite the overwhelming intimacy of the act.
Time, in defiance to the Aldo’s wishes, had apparently sped up, because he could now see his mark enter the living room of the small house.
Aldo remembered the advice of Abe’s men, and pointed the gun towards the open window, aiming between the paisley curtains that were billowing softly in the breeze. He watched as the man stripped off his jacket and removed his tie, and then pulled the trigger and held on.
The rain of bullets exploded violently, and Aldo saw through squinted eyes the man fall to the ground, tomato red stains marring the perfect white shirt. Aldo forced his clenched finger to loosen from the trigger, and saw that the man wasn’t going to be moving anytime soon. He held the warm gun beneath his trench coat, and began to walk quickly in the opposite direction.
He felt emptier, less satisfied than he normally did when leaving a whorehouse, as well as more apprehensive of what the consequences might be. But he felt none of the bone-crushing guilt he had expected. He didn’t feel as though the Devil had just sunk his claws into his soul, ready to rip it out for an eternity of torment. He just felt emptier, and perhaps a little sad.
He went back home, looked in on Gisella to make sure the little minx was actually asleep, and then went to bed.
When he awoke, panting in the night, it was not the smoke of the fire that filled his lungs, but rather that of a smoking gun.