Omerta epilogue
Sep. 2nd, 2005 04:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bedlamsbardFinal wordcount: 64,667 words, counting chapter headings. Final page number: 120 pages, single-spaced, 12 point Times New Roman.
“Mac!” Danny said, and Mac turned toward him as he came down the hall, stumbling a little in his haste.
“Yes, Danny?”
“I saw you and Stella on the news,” he said, “escorting Blue Eyes outta Vinnie’s house in Staten Island. It was a big deal, ya know? Son of a Mob boss gets arrested for kidnapping the kids of another boss. Especially since Fat Freddy got himself clipped a couple hours ago. The newsies love that sorta stuff. It was all over – well, I guess you know that, you were there not answering questions and looking grim.”
“Yes,” Mac said, “I was.” He looked at Danny for a minute, picking out the resemblances between him and Val Constantine. “Is there a point to this, Danny? I’ve had a long day.”
Danny looked faintly stricken, then he twisted his hands awkwardly in front of him and said, “I was wondering – ya know, since you an’ Val got along okay, I guess, since you weren’t haulin’ him in on the six o’clock news – if you’re – you know, okay with the Mob stuff. And –” He paused. “If we’re good.”
Mac looked at him for another long moment. “We’re clear,” he said.
Something wild and feral flashed across Danny’s eyes. “So what,” he said slowly, “now you know all about my sordid past, about my criminal relatives, about what I’ll inherit when Val dies. I guess he told you that too, along with half the gossip about the Mafia. So you know about all my crap, and then you use that to fucking use me like I was an informant or something. What,” he said, voice suddenly stuttering wild and frantic, “I’m not a good enough detective for you to trust me anymore? I’m – fuck, was that it? Was that all? You just wanted to know about Val, and about the Mob, not –”
That wild thing passed across his face again, something fierce and lost, and maybe it was that that stopped Mac’s voice in his throat, caught his words and turned them away, and for a moment he wasn’t looking at Danny, his Danny, his maverick blue-eyed detective with the past spattered in blood and ink, but at a thousand nameless suspects, a thousand unavenged victims, at a thousand killers with their hands cuffed behind their backs and their voices spitting hellfire and brimstone. For a moment, he couldn’t see Danny, but those lost cases, those cold cases and the closed cases, the ones whose files rotted away into history on the shelves, locked away by mildew and blood and bureaucracy. And just for a moment, he didn’t see Danny, but Val Constantine.
Danny’s voice cracked brokenly, and Mac realized he’d continued speaking. “Screw you, Mac,” he said, voice suddenly exhausted. “Just – screw you. I’m going home.” He shoved past Mac with one hand rubbing over his eyes, glass pushed up on the edge of his fingers.
Mac turned to watch him go, and he thought, again, of what he’d been about to say. That’s not what I meant, that’s not what I did, I trust – And then the words caught again in his throat. Quietly, to himself, he said, “I trust you,” but he couldn’t tell if he was telling the truth.
*
He went out into the reception area to find Danny gone and Stella sitting on one of the wooden precinct benches shoved against the wall, holding a thick manila envelope with her eyes slanted closed.
“Stella?”
She opened her eyes. “Hey, Mac,” she said.
“Are you all right?” he asked after a moment; it didn’t seem the right thing to say, but he couldn’t think of anything else.
Something like a choked off sob escaped from her throat, and he sat down next to her and put a hand tentatively on her shoulder. She arched into his touch, like a cat, and he remembered when it had been the other way around, when she’d be the one who touched him and he the one yearning for physical contact. Stella shoved the envelope into his lap. “This came today. For me.”
Mac turned it over with his free hand. Detective Stella Bonasera, c/o NYPD Crime Scene Unit, Twelfth Precinct –
“It’s from your fa – Nick Bonasera,” he said.
Stella swallowed, and he felt the movement as her shoulder shifted beneath his hand. “I haven’t opened it,” she said. “I couldn’t –”
“Do you want –”
“Please,” she said, and then – “Mac –”
He took her hand away from her shoulder and felt the loss like a physical injury, then he tugged the envelope open slowly and reached inside. He came back with a handful of faded photos and three folded sheets of yellow legal paper. “Stella –”
“I don’t know if I want to –” She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again and reached across his lap for the photos. “Oh, God,” she whispered. “I don’t – I – that’s my mother.”
Mac touched her hair lightly, unsure, but the comforting gesture seemed to calm her. Stella picked up the letter, and, her lips moving silently, began to read.
End.
The next story in this series will be Habeus Corpus.
Excuse me while I fall over.
“Mac!” Danny said, and Mac turned toward him as he came down the hall, stumbling a little in his haste.
“Yes, Danny?”
“I saw you and Stella on the news,” he said, “escorting Blue Eyes outta Vinnie’s house in Staten Island. It was a big deal, ya know? Son of a Mob boss gets arrested for kidnapping the kids of another boss. Especially since Fat Freddy got himself clipped a couple hours ago. The newsies love that sorta stuff. It was all over – well, I guess you know that, you were there not answering questions and looking grim.”
“Yes,” Mac said, “I was.” He looked at Danny for a minute, picking out the resemblances between him and Val Constantine. “Is there a point to this, Danny? I’ve had a long day.”
Danny looked faintly stricken, then he twisted his hands awkwardly in front of him and said, “I was wondering – ya know, since you an’ Val got along okay, I guess, since you weren’t haulin’ him in on the six o’clock news – if you’re – you know, okay with the Mob stuff. And –” He paused. “If we’re good.”
Mac looked at him for another long moment. “We’re clear,” he said.
Something wild and feral flashed across Danny’s eyes. “So what,” he said slowly, “now you know all about my sordid past, about my criminal relatives, about what I’ll inherit when Val dies. I guess he told you that too, along with half the gossip about the Mafia. So you know about all my crap, and then you use that to fucking use me like I was an informant or something. What,” he said, voice suddenly stuttering wild and frantic, “I’m not a good enough detective for you to trust me anymore? I’m – fuck, was that it? Was that all? You just wanted to know about Val, and about the Mob, not –”
That wild thing passed across his face again, something fierce and lost, and maybe it was that that stopped Mac’s voice in his throat, caught his words and turned them away, and for a moment he wasn’t looking at Danny, his Danny, his maverick blue-eyed detective with the past spattered in blood and ink, but at a thousand nameless suspects, a thousand unavenged victims, at a thousand killers with their hands cuffed behind their backs and their voices spitting hellfire and brimstone. For a moment, he couldn’t see Danny, but those lost cases, those cold cases and the closed cases, the ones whose files rotted away into history on the shelves, locked away by mildew and blood and bureaucracy. And just for a moment, he didn’t see Danny, but Val Constantine.
Danny’s voice cracked brokenly, and Mac realized he’d continued speaking. “Screw you, Mac,” he said, voice suddenly exhausted. “Just – screw you. I’m going home.” He shoved past Mac with one hand rubbing over his eyes, glass pushed up on the edge of his fingers.
Mac turned to watch him go, and he thought, again, of what he’d been about to say. That’s not what I meant, that’s not what I did, I trust – And then the words caught again in his throat. Quietly, to himself, he said, “I trust you,” but he couldn’t tell if he was telling the truth.
*
He went out into the reception area to find Danny gone and Stella sitting on one of the wooden precinct benches shoved against the wall, holding a thick manila envelope with her eyes slanted closed.
“Stella?”
She opened her eyes. “Hey, Mac,” she said.
“Are you all right?” he asked after a moment; it didn’t seem the right thing to say, but he couldn’t think of anything else.
Something like a choked off sob escaped from her throat, and he sat down next to her and put a hand tentatively on her shoulder. She arched into his touch, like a cat, and he remembered when it had been the other way around, when she’d be the one who touched him and he the one yearning for physical contact. Stella shoved the envelope into his lap. “This came today. For me.”
Mac turned it over with his free hand. Detective Stella Bonasera, c/o NYPD Crime Scene Unit, Twelfth Precinct –
“It’s from your fa – Nick Bonasera,” he said.
Stella swallowed, and he felt the movement as her shoulder shifted beneath his hand. “I haven’t opened it,” she said. “I couldn’t –”
“Do you want –”
“Please,” she said, and then – “Mac –”
He took her hand away from her shoulder and felt the loss like a physical injury, then he tugged the envelope open slowly and reached inside. He came back with a handful of faded photos and three folded sheets of yellow legal paper. “Stella –”
“I don’t know if I want to –” She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again and reached across his lap for the photos. “Oh, God,” she whispered. “I don’t – I – that’s my mother.”
Mac touched her hair lightly, unsure, but the comforting gesture seemed to calm her. Stella picked up the letter, and, her lips moving silently, began to read.
End.
The next story in this series will be Habeus Corpus.
Excuse me while I fall over.