Red-Running

Cyrus let his cigarette fall to the ground, smoldering embers stark against the trampled grass. It sputtered out beneath the heel of his dress shoe and the weight of his grimace—muck swallowed the Italian leather whole, its ugly squelch reminding him what a shithole the Meadowlands were. Moonlight rippled over muddy rakes in the ground, laden with bullet shells and flecks of metal. Tips of knives. Shattered beer bottles. More cigarette butts.

Marsh water lapped against all the discarded crap, dragging it deep into a rippling, shadowy pool. New York City reflected off its obsidian surface in the distance—a lively contrast from the silent thickets across the river. Cyrus flung his empty pack into the pond. The city distorted, then disappeared.

Grass rustled at his back. The puckering sound of wet dirt grew louder as someone approached his side.

Sonny Cassidy glanced out over the marsh. Unlike Cyrus, he looked directly at the distant city instead of its mirror. “Beautiful night, eh?”

“A beautiful night includes liquor and ladies, none of which I see,” he replied. “Youse slacking off back there?”

“No—Sid’s on it.” He cast Cyrus a cheeky grin, unusually-sharp canines flashing in the dark. “I was gonna take a smoke, but I guess that’s off the table.” He nodded to the floating box. “No good’ll come of you sulking over here.”

“Ay, I ain’t sulking,” Cyrus protested, turning swiftly. “I’m thinking up a plan in case things go south.”

“It better not. Kaisers said they want that shipment tonight.”

“The Kaisers will get their goods when I’m done and ready to hand ‘em over.”

The statement was a bluff and Sonny knew that. Cyrus didn’t have as much control as he wanted. It was slipping out of his hands like a wild rope, and the only thing it would leave behind were blistering burns. His father’s body hadn’t even been cold a month yet and things were already getting away from him. Young, fresh blood. Could he rise to the occasion and show his father’s men what he was made of, or were they just waiting to sock him while he slept? He didn’t know. But he had to try and prove himself, because their opinions mattered deeply to him, foolishly enough.

He’d already trapped them beneath the heel of a higher power—one crueler and more vigilant than God. A prisoner of the Kaisers’ arrangements.

Tonight he had a chance to show his father’s associates it wasn’t all for naught. That he was capable of doing the Capadanno name right. That he could come out swinging from the corner he’d backed them into.

“Got us running around like fuckin’ circus monkeys,” Cyrus muttered. He thought about kicking the ground, but didn’t want to ruin his shoes further. To Sonny, he ticked his chin over his shoulder. “Let’s get going. This is taking too long.”

They tramped back through the tall stalks of grass—black in the night, with Cyrus impatiently batting wavering cattails out of the way. One knocked him in the head, tipping his homburg down his brow. Sonny snickered. Cyrus fixed it with a glare.

“You know what I like to do?” Sonny asked after a few minutes of quiet. Cyrus hated the violent hum of cicadas and the stir of crickets hiding in the muddy cesspool of North Jersey, but Sonny saw it all with fresh eyes every time they came. Now, his head was angled toward the sky as he took in its darkness. Cyrus would get lost if he looked up. “I like to pretend that Judy’s up there, watching us.”

Grief flickered in Cyrus’s chest at the thought of his sister, but he quickly smothered it like he did the cigarette butt. Down into the cool, muddy depths of a place too disgusting to linger. “Could be,” he said. “She’d hate that goddamn pocket square.”

Sonny scoffed. “You’re just saying that,” he said with mock offense. He fastidiously adjusted the butter-yellow slice of silk against his breast.

“Ay Judy,” Cyrus called into the night. “Say nothing if you think it’s ugly.” He held a hand up, listening for the nonexistent hum of his sister’s airy voice. Part of him wished to hear it, he really did, but when guts spilled out of a person you couldn’t exactly put them back in. “What’d I say?” he asked, turning to Sonny. “She hates it.”

Sonny’s smile was wry, but when the joke wore off, he looked solemn as his gaze returned to the stars. “It’s just nice, y’know? Pretending she’s here. It’s something. ‘Cuz I know we’ll never be in the same place again.”

Cyrus hated the mourning in his friend’s tone—like a lovesick puppy, with his blue eyes all sorry. So he asked, “Why? ‘Cuz you know you’re going to hell?”

Sonny’s push was swift, but playful. Cyrus smacked him away before he could fall into the brush and dirty his suit. “Don’t go acting like you’re not coming with me,” Sonny said with a chuckle.

“I’ll drag you.”

They broke out of the thicket, then, and Cyrus brushed the greedy hands of nature off his shoulders before assuming a stern mask. He walked forward, catching the attention of Sid, who was leaning up against the car’s hood. Soft headlights bathed their muddy scene in a mixture of licorice shadows and the kind yellow of Sonny’s horrible pocket square. Muck squished beneath their feet like wet kisses.

“Anything yet?” Cyrus asked.

“Squat,” Sid replied, folding arms over his chest. “He’s been quiet as a clam.”

Cyrus spared a glance across the way, catching sight of two other men patrolling the area. They were his father’s men, but men he could trust. He hoped. As of right now he had more faith in their capabilities than Sid, who was fidgeting like he had a good sniff while Cyrus and Sonny were gone, whites of his eyes bright as the irises ticked back and forth feverishly.

“Maybe if you talk to ‘im,” Sid continued.

They were running out of time. Unfortunately he was right.

Cyrus approached the pit at the center of their vigil. The harrowing coo of nighttime insects faded under the sound of ragged breaths and metal slicing through slick dirt. Light crested the edge of the hole like the golden rim of an expensive piece of china. Other than that, it was nearly pitch black. He could hardly make out the man standing at the bottom, reedy form trembling as the poor sucker thrust his shovel forward into the wall of dark.

“How goes it?” Cyrus called down.

The man flinched as he gazed up, as a harmless rabbit would do before a fox. Sweat beaded his pallid features where they weren’t smeared with earth. He looked like a barbarian, a strap of his suspender loose around his elbow.

“M-Mister Capadanno,” he hiccuped. “Please.”

“Please what?” Cyrus asked.

“I don’t know where they keep the reserves,” he explained breathlessly. “I-I already told your friend that. I’m just a nurse. Please. I don’t know anything.” Now he was ugly crying. Sniveling like a pig.

Cyrus almost felt sorry for him. He sighed. “Fine, you can stop. I believe you. Your associates’ll be here to collect you soon, anyhow.” He eyed the nurse warily before deciding to extend his hand. “Up and at ‘em.”

The man hesitated. Cyrus could see the options playing out behind his eyes—take the hand, or stay in the muddy pit. The walls would give out soon. If they didn’t, the incoming rainstorm would take care of that. Cyrus could already taste the sweet bite of petrichor on his tongue.

Finally, the nurse made the decision to be helped out. A pale hand with brittle, dirt-lodged fingernails clamped around Cyrus’s gloved one. Cyrus grimaced. He imagined how clammy the man’s skin would feel without the leather between. Good thing he didn’t have to find out. Slowly, he pulled him out of the hole. He could feel the ghosts of his father’s men in his peripheral, watching the exchange carefully with hands in the folds of their suit jackets.

When they reached the top, the nurse hunched over to breathe. He was trembling, but Cyrus knew it was a tremble of relief, because he was still alive. Now he stood up straight. “Thank—”

Cyrus pulled out his pistol and shot the man in the throat.

He grappled to staunch the rapidly-bleeding wound, but that was something a person couldn’t come back from. Just like if their guts had spilled out. Defenseless eyes went wide. It was the last thing Cyrus saw before the man pitched backward into his marshy grave.

“Idiot,” Cyrus said. He approached the edge again. “We got a squirter.” When he glanced over his shoulder, Sonny was practically bouncing on his heels, waiting for the command. “Take care of it.”

The words were hardly out of his mouth before Sonny was eagerly climbing down into the hole.

The purr of an engine on the horizon drew Cyrus’s attention away. Headlights flashed across the site, but they weren’t from Cyrus’s coupe. They were from the rapidly approaching car on the main road—one smart enough to spot the little inlet along the thicket where he’d set up shop. Wheels hesitantly trundled through the sodden ground as it drew closer.

The ambulance stopped fifteen feet from the coupe and Sid.

Two people—a man and woman—emerged from the vehicle. They silently took in their surroundings, bodies wound tight with evident tension.

“Where is he?” called the man. “We have your reserve.”

Cyrus pocketed his pistol. “That’s nice,” he said. “I got a question for you. Where does it all come from? Hospital’s too clever to keep it somewhere obvious with us running around.”

“The doctors don’t tell us,” replied the woman, meekly. She refused to meet Cyrus’s eyes. “Mister Capadanno, sir.”

“We’re only the delivery people,” the man said. “Now where’s our guy? You promised an exchange.”

Cyrus sighed. He glanced at Sid, who was shaking his head as slowly as a drugged-up fool could, before turning back to the hospital staff. “Your guy’s in the pit,” he said. “You’re welcome to go get ‘im. Thanks for your kind and honest work.”

A hospital of idiots. Both of them ran for the pit, calling again and again what Cyrus assumed was the dead nurse’s name. He chuckled, watching them go.

As they reached the edge, it wasn’t their friend who rose from the depths, but Sonny. Rivulets of blood streamed from his mouth like tear tracks. It was all over his suit, his pocket square. He’d always been a horribly messy drinker. When he smiled at the staff, his sharp teeth were stained red.

Both of them screamed in horror.

Cyrus was already traipsing toward the back of the ambulance. The sonorous groans of the trunk doors opening drowned out the sounds of struggle as Sonny lunged. Inside the car lay four wooden kegs, their bands glinting like silver coins in the moonlight. Cyrus smiled to himself. He leaned close to the nozzle of the first barrel, inhaling deeply.

Metallic perfume flooded his senses.

It wasn’t a pleasant smell to him, a man with round canines and no craving for the red. But metaphorically speaking, it smelled like victory. Success. He’d entered the Kaisers’ blood-sucking web with green-papered intention. His father’s associates were stupid to underestimate his wit.

Soon he was joined by Sid and the other men. Sonny came a little later, the cries of anguish silenced at his back. His mouth was redder than before—fresh blood streaked down his neck, and he lifted a hand to lick it from his fingers, pupils blown wide with intoxication.

Cyrus slapped the side of the ambulance with a grin. “Let’s get lifting, boys. We got a speakeasy to get to.”