Votives
Rating:
PG-13 (language)
Pairings:
none (slash implied)
Season:
before Call of the Wild
Disclaimer:
I don't own 'em (wish I did!). Only thing I get from
this is fun and (hopefully) feedback.
***
Votives
The tall
man walked into his library, looking with quiet appreciation at the room’s
furnishings. In front of the native stone fireplace was a leather sofa flanked
by two overstuffed easy chairs; these, along with a hand-woven Southwestern
rug, created a comfortable little island for conversation, or for just watching
flames dance in the fireplace. Artworks, the real things, not department store
knock-offs, were on the walls or displayed on pedestals or shelves. Designer
lamps were placed here and there, providing as much or as little light as
suited his mood.
The only
light Armando Langoustini needed or wanted at that
moment was provided by the PC monitor on his cherry wood desk.
Walking
over and settling into the throne-like executive’s chair, Armando smiled at
the screensaver on his computer: a
white Arctic wolf, loping gracefully across a crisp field of snow.
Occasionally, the wolf would fling its virtual head back and howl; silently
now, for Armando had turned the sound off after the first few times, finding it
too depressing. As it was, he often found himself reluctant to enter the
password that would switch off the scene.
But it
was Sunday night. On Sunday nights, he had a special task.
Password
entered, Langoustini pointed and clicked on Microsoft
Works, calling up the word processing program. He chuckled slightly, thinking
that for a complete technophobe, he was getting pretty damn good at this. Then,
preparations complete, his mood sobered, and he began his task...
*
Dear
Benny,
God, if
only you knew how many times I wanted to just pick up a phone and call you!
Just to listen to your voice, maybe hear another stupid Inuit story, find out
how the Furball is doing...I miss it all. I miss you.
You’re the best friend a man could ever ask for.
And
that’s why I haven’t called.
I can’t
risk it, Benny. I can’t be a risk to you. You’re too important to me. If
any of these guys even thought that you knew what was going on, well, it
wouldn’t just be my life at stake. I knew that when I accepted this assignment.
I can deal with that, even (no joke intended) live with it. What I couldn’t
live with is knowing that I put you in danger, maybe
even got you killed. No way, Benny. As
I told you once before about something else, not in this lifetime.
You
probably wondered why I took this job. You probably figured it was for my
career. After all, I was always going on
and on about the Vecchio career. Face it, if this thing works out, it’d be the
smartest career move a loud-mouthed Chicago cop could have ever made. Damn,
I’ll probably get commendations out my ass, maybe even a promotion.
Right
now, I really don’t give a fat rat’s ass about my career.
Right
now, my main feeling is: fuck my career. And fuck the mob, the Iguanas, the Feds... fuck them all. Especially
the FBI. Fucking Bunch of Idiots. Do you know
what those federal bastards said they’d do if I didn’t cooperate with their
little masquerade? Oh, they were real nice about it, said it was my decision,
even. You want to know what I had to decide between?
Taking this goddamned assignment, or having the Feds
dig up some old shit on my old man and link it to Ma. I’m not joking. Damn
bastards showed me stuff they had: pictures, documents, bank books, account
numbers, letters. Benny, they stacked the deck against me (it’s a saying,
Benny, look up what it means. Or ask someone.). It was all fake stuff, every
bit of it. Okay, most of it was fake, but it
all looked real. And real believable.
Tough
choice, right?
What
else could I do, Benny? I had to do this. I couldn’t put Ma through any of
that. She put up with enough of Pop’s shit when he was alive. She sure don’t need any more of it now that he’s dead. Even if none
of it’s real, she still don’t deserve to go through
what would happen. And you know what would happen. No matter what, someone
would believe it, all of it. Even if no one did, there’d still be talk. You
know it, I know it; the fucking Feds know it, too. Got to hand it to them, the
sons of bitches
are good at what they do. And Ma doesn’t deserve to go through that. Neither
does Frannie, or Maria and her kids. I had to take
care of them. I have to take care of them. I always have and I always will.
So, here
I am, living in the lap of luxury. Best of everything: cars, clothes, entertainment.
You should see all this stuff, Benny! Remember that time when Zuko sent all that furniture and stuff to your apartment?
Garage sale castoffs, compared to what I have now. And, man, the night life!
The night life here is unbelievable! Anything I could want, I could get. Anything. Except for my real life. Except for my family.
Except
for you.
God, I’m
getting maudlin here. I just want you to know I’m thinking of you, Benny, and
that I miss you so damn bad. Think of me sometime, OK? And hope like I do that
this nightmare will be over soon, and I’ll be back, hauling you and the wolf
around in the Riv, listening to you yak at me about
stop signs and turn signals and being courteous, you listening to me bitch
about Dief stealing my donuts and shedding and
everything else, and Dief in the back, probably
laughing at us both.
I miss
you, Benny –
Ray
*
Stretching
in his chair, Armando looked at what he had written, reading it over twice. Satisfied,
he slid the mouse on its pad, double-clicking on the “print” icon. He then
carefully typed in the necessary commands, and sat back while the very
expensive laser printer (the best on the market or off the back of a truck) did
its thing. It didn’t take long; it never did. He clicked to close the program,
declining to save his document. Some things were best left private and
personal, like a sinner’s prayer.
He
looked at the letter and found himself still satisfied with the work. It looked
good, nice font style (he had tried different ones but like “Ariel” best),
good, heavy weight paper. Classy. Picking up his pen,
enjoying the feel of the 24k gold barrel between his fingers, he signed the
letter quickly, a small smile touching his hazel-green eyes. Running his hand
lightly over the polished surface of the desk, he thought with only a little
irony that both desk and chair cost almost as much as a Chicago detective’s
entire month's salary.
It was
getting late. The monitor’s light simply wasn’t enough any more, but electric
lights wouldn’t do. He got up and indulged in another stretch, this time
throwing his whole body into it and adding a yawn as well. Letter in hand,
Armando walked over to the fireplace. On the mantel, hidden behind a group of
candles in various wrought-iron holders, he found a box of long-stemmed matches. Striking one, he touched the flame to one of
the candles, smiling as it sputtered and lit. He then waved the match so as to
extinguish it and stood, eyes closed, breathing in the mixture of the candle’s
cinnamon scent and the match’s faint sulfur fumes.
Opening
his eyes he read his letter through one more time by the candle's light, then,
rolling it carefully into a long, cream-colored cylinder, held it to the flame,
still smiling as the paper caught fire. One by one he lit the remaining
candles, his lips moving silently as if in prayer. Once finished, he gently
placed the burning paper in the fireplace where a few sticks of Georgia fatwood
waited. He knelt silently and watched the flames dance to life, sending bits of
ash aloft to the heavens.
Footsteps
sounded on the rock floor behind him, followed by the same protest he heard
every Sunday night: “Mr. Armando! You know I could do that for you!”
“That’s
OK, Nero,” Armando Langoustini answered, rising.
“Some things I kinda like to do myself, you know.” He walked over to sit on the leather couch
and watch his fire.
Nero
shook his head affectionately. He found Mr. Langoustini
easier to approach since recovering from the accident that nearly took his
life. “Your milk, Sir.” The butler walked over and
placed the glass on a table by his employer’s arm. “Anything
else, Mr. Armando?”
“No,
thanks, though,” the man answered, not taking his eyes from the flames. “You go on to bed.”
“Goodnight, Sir.”
“'Night, Nero.” Armando Langoustini listened closely until he could hear Nero’s
footsteps recede down the hall. Then, with firelight and candlelight glittering
in his eyes, Ray Vecchio, his expression pensive, whispered his Sunday night
benediction, “Good night, Benny. I love you.”
The end.