The Man From Before

On the way to Hotel Normandie, Wesley kept quiet. He didn't greet the freed fugitive or say anything more than necessary to me. I wanted to inquire what was on his mind, but I already had too many tangled thoughts. It wasn't a proper time by any means. I kept quiet as well. 

Wesley had never been a man of many words, nor was he fond of small talks. I reckoned it was partially due to his reserved nature, which he had refused to admit. He did confess, however, that he wouldn't want to talk much so that others wouldn't ask him a list of questions that irritated him when his accent was heard. He said he used to be sociable until he realized that would do him more harm than good.

Being a silent man in this business was better than being a talkative one.

-----

Neil looked silly in Thomas' old clothes. The shirt sleeves were too long for him. His effort in rolling them up was proven futile, and his hands were unwillingly covered.

-It was strange to have him in the same room with me. He was close. So close that if I reached over, I could touch him.

-I had always thought that if I met him again, I'd want to touch him out of longing and vindictiveness. And when I finally did see him, all I wanted was to keep my distance. I no longer knew him; he seemed ridiculously foreign, though he looked the same as the man I remembered.

He had become a familiar stranger.

"It's been too long," I said with my hands clasped.

"I missed you," he smiled and placed his hand over mine. "I thought I'll never get to see you again."

I sighed, pulled my hands out of from his grip, and reached for the teacup on the side table.

"You shouldn't have come for me," he frowned, displeased with my action. The signature nervous half-smile climbed onto the corners of his lips as he continued with his attempt undeterred. "You could have gotten hurt or worse."

"Well," I gave him the best smile I could put on, "I felt it was the right thing to do."

"I see that your tenaciousness hasn't changed one bit," he gave up his deceitful act and crossed his arms. He glanced over the diamond on my ring finger and said: "I also see that you are doing fine for yourself."

The man from before, the man whom I used to know, was a gifted sweet talker. The man sitting next to me in this hotel room now was filled with bitterness and animosity. It wasn't all that astounding since I had realized that he had shown me nothing but a disguise and that his secrets were still hidden. I couldn't say for sure that this was the real him, though I'd argue it was rather close to the truth.

"Such harsh words," I smacked my lips. "You could've just said thank you."

My reaction amused him. I was obedient the last time he was around. 

"You've certainly changed." Although that smile lingered, it became somewhat ironic. "You don't seem like you want me here. Why did you even bother to save me?"

"I need to know how he's doing," I said dryly and righteously. "And I want an apology from you."

"Annie," he held onto my shoulders, forcing me to stay still. Unable to escape, I had no choice but to meet his eye as he said the name no one else dared to use, "he's dead."

I froze. Two words made up a simple sentence that carried much more weight than I would like.

My ears rang. It was a sharp, penetrating hum that lasted a couple of sounds and felt like an eternity.

"What?" I said in a haze.

"He's dead," he repeated. "Thomas Murphy shot him. I tried. I said I would do anything. I said to shoot me instead. It wasn't good enough. He said he had to kill the wager."

I was stiff, unsure whether he was telling the truth. I didn't trust him, but the emotions in his eyes looked way too real.

He took a moment to compose himself: "I'm sorry, Annie, I'm sorry. I couldn't save him. He must have been confused and terrified. He was so tiny in my arms. Every night I see his face when I close my eyes. Every night I dream of him running toward me with his little arms open, but I can never catch him. When I reach for him, he disappears like a soap bubble. A pop, and he's gone."

I had mourned him. I was supposed to be prepared. I had no more tears to shed. 

"You can't expect me to believe you," I kept shaking my head and tried to remain rational. "You can't fool me anymore, no matter how good you are at lying." 

"I'm telling the truth." My doubt exasperated him. In the heat of the moment, he kept talking. "If you ask Victoria, she'll tell you the same."

He realized what he had just confessed as he sunk into a dreadful silence.

I squinted. I couldn't decide whether he had slipped or planned an elaborate act. Scoffing, I asked: "Victoria? How did you come to know her?"

-----

He proposed to me on a Friday. I remembered it because another girl couldn't keep her mouth shut about one of her regulars taking her to watch the Gold Rush.

I had just turned eighteen, still plump-cheeked, and dreamed of the world.

We were by the beach, sitting on the bench under the sun, talking about nothing. I enjoyed hearing him talk. His mind was filled with endless stories, happy or sad. His tone was soft, and he spoke like a poet. He was electric, ecstatic, and possessed the magic of putting a smile on my face. He was fuller of life than I could ever be.

"Will you marry me?" He caught me off guard by getting on one knee and taking my hand. "We can get away from this insular state. Come with me to Chicago, and let's start a new life together."

"Of course," I said, "I'll go wherever you go."

He smiled brightly and slid a delicate ruby ring on my finger. He said it belonged to his late mother.

In truth, he had bought it at an estate sale. It belonged to an older lady all right, but she certainly wasn't his mother. The secret was uncovered years later when I saw a similar ring on Lizzie's finger.

"They had two of these," Lizzie shrugged with bitterness. She proceeded to describe what the other ring looked like. "I wanted that one, but some blond fellow got to it first and wouldn't let go even when I offered him a large sum of money."

-----

The house was crowded. It was fuller than I ever thought I'd see. There wasn't a party, but chaos ensued and echoed. The family I joined was in front of me, having conversations as if they were ordinary people.

They were in isolation and blamed one another. I found myself seeing these people differently. 

Wesley approached me by the door. He handed me a glass of gin and whispered:

"I didn't say anything to Thomas. I couldn't bring myself to it."

"I don't deserve that sort of kindness," I said without looking at him.

"He'll find out sooner or later, most likely soon enough." He sighed. "You might as well tell him."

"Eventually." I narrowed my eyes. "I'm quite sure that I'm purposefully left untold about something. I need to know what that is."

Wesley frowned. I could tell that he was thinking.

"Don't say anything to Laurie just yet."

"I won't. Not a single word," he tried to sound light-hearted. Then he turned solemn and stern: "You know you can trust me."

I smiled gratefully.

"There you are!" Thomas spotted me from across the room and grinned "Come."

He was kind to me in front of Wesley and only in front of Wesley. I found that quite preposterous and comical. He was irretrievably fixated on his imagined idea of Wesley and me. As with many other instances, his version of the truth was the only truth.

He took me aside.

"I dealt with De Rossi," he said bluntly, "and I spared Ferguson."

He was brooding, and after carefully observing my expression, he was pleased to see me shaking my head in what he presumed as confusion.

"What happened to 'not fuck with the Italians'?"

"I wouldn't want my wife to hate me," he swirled his bourbon. He seemed to want to add more, but he chose not to.

I lit up a cigarette.

"Even though Ferguson was spared," he took a sip of his drink, "if you're plotting anything behind my back, I suggest you spill it out before it's too late. Neil Ferguson isn't someone you'd want to mess around with. And I hope you don't need me to remind you of that."

"Nothing will ever go unnoticed under your eyes," I took a drag. 

"Another thing," he appeared to be content with my answer and tapped on the side of the glass. "On Monday at eleven in the morning, you'll take some men to intercept a cargo in Marina Del Rey."

"What for?"

"Well," he curled his lips, "I've got the whistle that the Changs have an incoming shipment. They can't unload it in San Pedro. Hence, they're putting it on a boat coming through the marina. I want you to intercept it."

"And do what with it?"

"Burn it," he pursed his lips, "or sink it, for all I care."

"All right. Should I take Clarence with me?"

"If you want," he nodded and gestured that I was free to leave.

"Who gave you that information?" I asked without moving. "Who did you send?"

He didn't answer.

"You're fanning out my job," I squinted. "Don't you trust me?"

"Should you be trusted?"

He didn't give me any time to answer. With a symbolic peck on my cheek, he walked away with an empty glass.