The Second Son, page 8
My brother is gone. My wife and child are gone. I have a right to feel this fucked.
Slowly, I stand back up and wipe my face with my hands.
No, I don’t have the right to dissolve in the middle of my front garden, and it doesn’t matter that no one can see it. I can see it. Ivan can see it.
If he was here right now, he’d grab my shoulders, shake me and tell me to toughen the fuck up. Then he’d put me in a headlock. I smile to myself and the tears start up again.
The last time I saw him was at his place after a big party for the crew. We all got blind drunk celebrating a successful ram-raid on a high-end jewellery store in Mosman. I’d dropped around the next day and found him sitting alone in his living room. The curtains were drawn and his house was a shambles, so I offered to help clean up. He told me to leave it; he seemed distant and wouldn’t look me in the eye. One hell of a hangover, I guess, but I wish our final moment together had been different.
Ivan was selfish and manipulative. He could also be a complete arsehole. Like our Dad, he didn’t have an off switch. Sometimes I had to drag him away during a fight when I thought he was going to kill someone. He would do anything to get his way. But he’d always had my back.
I wish I’d asked him if there was anything wrong that last time I saw him. I could have helped somehow. Perhaps it was my turn to look out for him. Now I’ll never know. Fuck, I miss the bastard.
AMY
While Sasha is at school and Mum and Dad are at an all-day golf tournament, I decide to make myself useful. I pull out Mum’s ironing basket, set up the ironing board in the living room and turn on the TV for company.
As I put down the remote, the male newsreader announces: ‘Another shooting occurred in Western Sydney last night. The third in the last month, each shooting linked to gang-related activity in our west. Well-known Italian gangland figure Tony Fazzini was shot twice as he was putting out the bins at the end of his driveway.’
I turn around and sink into a chair. We went to Tony Fazzini’s wedding. He’s the eldest son of Antonio Fazzini, head of one of the big Italian gangs. He’s got two little kids.
The footage was taken outside Tony’s house last night, less than thirty minutes’ drive from where I sit. Crime tape, concerned neighbours, whirling police lights.
‘This latest shooting has been linked by police to the deaths of two other known gang members murdered in similar circumstances over the last month,’ the news anchor continues. ‘Michael Vucavec was shot on the fourteenth of November and Ivan Novak was killed on the twenty-first of November. Is there a vigilante behind this attempt to clean up our streets?’
Mum and Dad will hear about this and freak out. The Croatian and Serbian gangs don’t get much media attention, thank God. They don’t have the notoriety of the Italians, Lebanese and Somalians. So there was hardly any media attention when Ivan was shot, even though there’d been an identical shooting the week before. I certainly hadn’t heard any mention of Ivan being a ‘known gang member’ until now.
The footage cuts to Detective Inspector MacPherson conducting a press conference on the steps of Liverpool Police Station. We don’t get to hear from the policeman because the news anchor keeps talking over the top of him.
‘Detective Inspector MacPherson heads up the Western Sydney Organised Crime Task Force. He assured us that these kinds of crimes do not usually endanger members of the general public and that his team is following up several promising leads.
‘We are looking at another big bushfire season…’
I switch off the TV.
‘When’s Dad getting home? Is he coming to watch me play cricket tomorrow?’ Sasha asks at dinner.
In Mum and Dad’s all-white kitchen, I stare pointedly across at the latest retro-style appliances in matching shades of lemon, on display on the stone benchtops, hoping Mum and Dad will come to my rescue.
‘I’ll come and watch you, Sash,’ says Dad with a complicit glance in my direction. ‘Your father has to work.’ He leans over the round kitchen table and ruffles Sasha’s hair. It’s obvious they’re related. My dad is tall, still handsome for his age, his blond hair almost white now.
‘No offence, Grandpa, but I want Dad to come.’
I find it hard not to smile. I can always rely on my son to tell it the way he sees it. But Dad is a retired lawyer and he’s hard to offend.
‘Sorry, mate, I’m as good as you’re going to get.’
‘I’ll come too, so that’s actually twice as good as only Grandpa,’ says Mum, who hates cricket but would watch her grandson staring at the sky for hours. Not that Sasha’s likely to stay still for long on a sportsfield.
‘I guess that’ll be okay.’ Sasha considers his options. ‘Are you coming too, Mum?’
‘As if I’d miss seeing you hit a six! Can you take your plate over to the sink if you’ve finished, please?’
‘What movie do you want to watch, champ?’ Dad follows Sasha to the sink. They head out of the kitchen discussing the merits of the DC franchise versus Marvel.
‘Thanks for cooking, darling. What a treat.’ Mum pops the last spoonful of salmon and spring onion risotto in her mouth. ‘You’ve certainly become a good cook over the last few years.’
‘I have plenty of time to perfect my skills.’
She looks at me intently, as if weighing up whether to continue.
‘You know, I can help with Sasha, if you want to return to work.’
‘Thanks, Mum. Maybe. Let’s see what happens. Did you ever want to go back to work after having me?’
‘God no. I’ve always had my charity work and my golf. And I wanted to be home for you when you walked through the door after school. You had a good childhood, didn’t you?’ She looks puzzled, as if perhaps my current troubles are somehow her fault.
I stand up and start clearing the plates. ‘I had a perfect childhood, Mum. Jumping in the pool after school. Doing my homework with the smell of a delicious dinner wafting down the hall. Just perfect.’
‘You’ve created a very nurturing environment for Sasha. But kids are more resilient than we imagine. He’ll deal with change if that’s the way you decide to go.’
As I pick up her side plate, she puts her hand on my wrist to stop me, her eyes asking the questions she’s been careful not to utter. Perhaps it’s something in my expression that makes her drop her hand and bring the conversation back to safer ground.
‘Darling, you know that if you’re at all bored or at a loose end, you could always come along with me to some charity events. I’m sure I could get you on a few committees.’ She beams at me now, as if this is the best idea she’s ever had.
I’d rather eat dirt, but I’m careful to keep my expression neutral.
‘Thanks, Mum, I’ll think about it. Why don’t you join Sash and Dad while I finish cleaning up?’
Mum sighs gratefully and heads into the living room. She’s put on a few pounds lately, but she’s still a stunner, tall and blonde with emerald-green eyes. I remember Johnny telling me that seeing my mum for the first time sealed the deal.
‘You’ve going to be beautiful your whole life, Ames. Your mum is a total MILF.’
I punched him in the arm for being so disgusting.
The memory brings a tiny smile to my face. I miss him.
As I stack the dishwasher, my mind prods at the edges of another, more recent memory, but shies away at the last moment. A shutter comes down with a bang. Don’t think about that, Amy—the voice is loud and commanding inside my head. It must be some kind of survival mechanism. I wonder if I should see a counsellor, but how can I tell the truth about what happened?
JOHNNY
I know the reprieve is over when the rakia bottle hits the table. In our house, rakia means ‘Now, we talk’. It’s only Friday night; I thought I had until Sunday to come up with a plan. Maybe not. Mum has cleared the plates and left us at the dining table. The air-con is on full bore and the fan is making a low whop, whop sound as it rotates above our heads. I’m still sweating.
Dad pours three shots and hands one to me and one to Marko.
‘Živjeli!’ we say in unison and knock back the rakia. Dad pours again, then sits back, scowling at me.
‘Marko tells me your wife leave you, go back to parents. Explain.’
‘How do you know?’ I stare at Marko with murder in my eyes, so blindsided I don’t even try to deny Dad’s accusation. Marko just purses his lips and nods, like he’s done me a favour.
‘Not my question.’ The growl in Dad’s voice refocuses my attention. He does not look happy. ‘Why I find out from him, not you?’
‘I thought she’d only be gone one night, but it’s been two. She won’t even speak to me on the phone.’ I can hear the hurt in my voice and I’m not proud of how I sound.
‘She won’t even speak to me on the phone.’ Dad imitates a child’s voice. ‘Stop whining!’ he barks. ‘Tell me why your wife take my only grandson.’
‘Because some dickhead shot up our living room!’ I shout. I sound like a teenager on the defensive. ‘I told you she was scared. But I want to know how Marko knows?’ I’m on my feet now. ‘You’re always sniffing around her, like a rabid fucking dog.’
Marko’s expression shifts from smugness to distaste.
Then it all boils out of me, the rage has a focus at last. ‘Maybe you killed Ivan.’ I’m leaning across the table, spitting the words at him. ‘You wanted Ivan out of the way, because you want to be boss someday. Sooner the better. First Ivan, then I guess I’m next. Why? Because you want Amy?’
Marko lunges up to face me, but he’s got his hands up.
‘You need to calm down, Johnny.’
Out of the corner of my eye, I register that my father is smiling. What the fuck has he got to smile about?
‘Ivan was my best friend.’ Marko is speaking to me as though I’m a moron, articulating every word slowly in that annoying way he has. ‘You already know Stanislav ordered the hit on Ivan. His son is killed, we got the blame. Payback, even though we had nothing to do with Michael Vucavec’s death. You know this! You have no right to accuse me of killing my closest friend. Or of having anything to do with your wife.’
Marko sits back down in his chair, as if the effort to explain has exhausted him. He brings his gaze back up to meet mine and all I see is pain.
‘You should learn respect, Johnny. You should take care of your wife and child.’ He shakes his head. ‘Nothing bad ever happened to you before. I understand. Ivan always looked after the bad stuff for you. But now you have to grow up.’
My hackles rise again, even though I have a horrible feeling he might be right.
Then Dad’s huge spade of a hand slams on the table and the glassware jumps and clinks. He’s not smiling anymore.
‘Sit down. You still not answer my question, Johnny. You too busy accusing your cousin of killing your brother. You stupid fuck. Why Amy leave? She catch you with another woman?’
I slump back into my chair, exhausted. I’m so tired of my father’s anger; I need him to back off.
‘For fuck’s sake, Dad, I already told you! Getting the front window shot out really spooked her. It would spook anyone! She doesn’t feel safe in our house. Her parents live in a retirement village. There’s a fucking security guard and a boom gate to get past.’
Dad flicks his hand at me like I’m a fly trying to land in the butter.
‘Twelve years she is happy to spend our money. Buy any dress she want. Now she think is good time to leave? What the fuck she doing? Amy liability. Putting my only grandchild in danger if she not under your roof.’
‘I just need some time to convince her to come home.’
‘You just need some time.’ Again, he’s using a child’s voice. ‘You act like girl. She respect you when you act like man. She want more money to spend. Here, five hundred dollars, give to Amy. She come back.’ Dad shifts in his seat, takes out his wallet and counts out ten fifties. He pushes them across the table at me.
I shove them back at him. Twelve years and he doesn’t know her at all. Amy is a good, middle-class girl. I’ve protected her from the sordid side of the family business. Now she’s frightened. She’s also the last person likely to be bought off with money. Marko frowns, as if he can’t believe what Dad just did either, but it doesn’t help.
‘This is not about money, Dad. She knew about the promise I made to you. Then our living room got shot up. She’s not stupid, and she knows enough about our business to be scared. She’s never been exposed to violence of any kind, but she understands that once we act, there will be consequences. We should all be worried. What about Tony Fazzini getting shot putting out the bins on Wednesday night? Same as Ivan and Michael?’
Dad slugs back his rakia and pours himself another. He swings his boots onto the dining table, a sure sign he’s on his way, more dangerous by the shot. As for my attempt to bring up Tony Fazzini’s murder as a diversion—he just makes more dismissive flicking motions with his fingers.
‘You bring Sasha home, leave Amy behind boom gate. Amy, we don’t need.’ He sips at his drink now, warming to his idea. ‘Yes, bring him here, make Branka happy again. Sasha have your old room. We find you good Croatian girl, she give me many grandchildren.’
Now I get it. My son growing up in this house, being trained to intimidate, lie, cheat and steal. Learning to live according to the family motto, as though criminal life is the only life worth having. Fucking hell. I need to tread very carefully here.
‘I won’t let that happen, Dad. I need time to sort it out. Amy will be back.’
‘You look weak, you are weak. I talk to her myself. Or better idea than talking to Amy—me and Marko, we take him from school.’
Marko has his gaze fixed on a spot on the table in front of him, his face like stone. Does he agree with this fucked-up scheme?
I’ve already run out of time. I need to come up with a plan fast, if only to distract my father. Give him something else to focus on, so he stops thinking that kidnapping Sasha is a good strategy. Then I’ll sort out Marko. He must be watching Amy. How else does he know where she is? Has my father told him to watch my wife?
And who the fuck benefits from shooting a local gang member every garbage night?
AMY
Leaning against the bonnet of my car, I watch Sasha walk across the oval towards the rest of the under-elevens cricket team. He moves like Johnny—a bit of a swagger and lot of natural grace. He doesn’t look back and wave like he usually does, because he’s angry with me. He’s never spent this much time away from his father. Even though Mum, Dad and I have told him it’s Johnny who’s away right now—working, liar-liar-pants-on-fire—he’s figured out that I’m somehow to blame.
Johnny has tried calling me over and over. I’m not ready to talk. But when my phone vibrates in my hand and I see Lexy’s pretty face, I take the call. I move away from Mum and Dad, who are kicking back in their deckchairs. They love this kind of outing with me and Sasha. I wonder if they wish I’d had more children too.
‘Hi, Amy, I’m sorry. I’ve been meaning to check in with you since Thursday. Anto told me you’re having some time out, right? Staying at your Mum and Dad’s?’
‘Lexy, hi. So good to hear your voice. Yeah, I was pretty freaked out by the whole drive-by shooting thing.’
‘What drive-by shooting?’ Lexy’s words come out slowly, as if she’s misheard. Of course, Anto hasn’t told her about it. Don’t frighten the children or horses.
I look towards the middle of the field, where Sasha’s team is batting first. He’s always near the top of the batting order, so I need to keep this call short.
‘Someone shot out our living-room window.’ I keep my voice down. ‘On Wednesday. I figured I had to get Sasha out of there, you know?’ Why do I sound as if I’m trying to justify my behaviour, as if I’ve been weak or something?
‘What the fuck? I can’t believe Anto didn’t tell me.’ I hear her yelling. ‘Anto! Why the fuck didn’t you tell me that Amy and Johnny had their front window shot out?’
A muffled reply, then Lexy’s voice again. ‘I’ll have his balls in a vice. I wonder what else he’s not telling me. That’s so terrible. Are you all right? Was Sasha there?’
‘No, he was at school and I’m fine, thanks. I just needed to get away from Johnny and the Novak family.’
‘Where are you now?’ she asks.
‘With Mum and Dad, watching Sash play cricket.’ Sasha’s mate Hawken is opening the batting. His great-grandfather was a famous cricketer—the kid has raw talent in his genes. Sasha takes his place down the other end of the pitch.
‘At least you can go home to your parents.’ Lexy sounds wistful. ‘My mum would have me, but, according to my dad, I’m never allowed to darken their door again.’
‘This stupid war. Why the hell is it still going? Didn’t the Serbs and the Croats live together peacefully for years before the last civil war?’
‘Of course we did. Lots of intermarriage. And there is again now, unless you live right where the worst of the fighting happened, near the border.’
‘But you were born here, weren’t you?’ I’m confused. Hawken whacks the first ball out towards the boundary. The two batters start to run, but the umpire yells ‘FOUR!’ and they retreat to their creases, grinning. Mum and Dad join in the applause.
‘Yeah, but Dad went back to Serbia to fight,’ explains Lexy.
‘You’re kidding?’ Lexy has my full attention again. ‘Why would any sane person leave a peaceful country to go back to a war-torn country—to fight?’
‘You’re assuming my father is sane. You’d be wrong. And it changed him, of course. He was worse when he came back.’ She sighs down the line. ‘Before I married Anto, back when we were still talking, my dad told me stuff he’d done that would make your toes curl, stuff he’s not proud of. He’s a devout Orthodox Christian, so he prays for forgiveness. Perhaps the only way he can forgive himself is to make the enemy seem worse.’
