I’m a shitty son.
r /> And I’ve let Ma down.
I’m sorry, Ma.
So, so Sorry.
Sometimes I wonder what she’d think of me now. And if she’d hate what I’ve become. I wonder what she’d say if she ever saw my mug-shot that hangs on the wall at the brotherhood’s meeting spot. To them, mug-shots are like trophies in glass cases. If you’ve earned one, you should be proud.
You’re a criminal.
A God damned felon.
How many arrests?
Two?
Wow.
Cue the applause.
Congratulations.
Here’s a bundt cake and a certificate, accompanied by a pat on the fucking back.
There were plenty of times where I would have liked to voice my opinion. The first time I was released from prison to Connie’s smiling face and outstretched arms, I wanted to ask him what the hell he was so happy about, but I didn’t. I swallowed the question, guzzled it down like a frothy Guinness and let it sit in my stomach to intoxicate me.
You don’t ask those kind of questions to the king pin of the brotherhood.
Unless you have a death wish and want to find yourself at the bottom of the Ohio River with a rope tied around your ankle and a brick tied to the end of that rope.
And in the future I know I won’t ever ask.
I like living and breathing.
I’m not interested in dying anytime soon.
I come to the last bill in the wad Murph gave me and pinch the bridge of my nose with a frustrated sigh. “Damn it. Murph, you’re a hundred bucks short.”
His eyes widen. “What?” Then under his breath he mutters, “Shit.”
“There should be five large here.” I narrow my eyes and stare up at him, trying to read him. Sometimes runners think they can get away with pinching some cash. They blame it on the customers. They say they got shorted. The runners who’ve done it in the past are now the dearly departed.
Murph is sweating bullets. He drops his burrito and begins touching himself frantically, emptying his pockets and by his reaction I know he didn’t take the cash. For one thing, the massive mother fucker dropped his burrito. And I know Murph has never wasted a miniscule morsel of anything edible. “I don’t know, man!” He continues patting down his pockets. Secondly, I’ve known him long enough to know he’s trustworthy.
“Relax,” I tell him and reach into my wallet. I pull out a crisp, new hundred dollar bill and add it to the stack. “Just remember next time. You got it?”
Murph swallows and wipes his forehead. “Yeah, man.”
“And be on time too,” I mention as I start the engine to the minivan. “I’ll cover for you this time, but you’ve got to remember this shit.” If he wants to live to see the next day.
And the day after that.
And the day after that.
He nods.
“Plus,” I add, “now I’m late for training. And when Joe starts bitching at me, I’m gonna blame you.”