Killing
A Novel By Victor Fortezza -- Contributing Author

WARNING: Killing takes place in a very real world where people are flawed and may contain material of a harsh nature. While the Cynic Online Magazine does not feel that the novel promotes racism, the novel acknowledges that racism exists in the real world and therefore acknowlegedges the possibility in its characters. If you are offended by content of this nature, please navigate to another feature within the magazine.

5

The advent of spring was joyous for Dante. The war was all but finished. Allied forces were mopping up, taking prisoners, mostly Iraqi draftees, by the thousands. The enemy had been pounded into submission. The elite Republican Guard had fled, without having engaged in battle, to within the safety of its country's borders. President Bush had an approval rating of 90%, virtually assuring his reelection next year. The nation had regained its reputation as the world's supreme power. Many declared that the demon of Vietnam had finally been exorcised, if not from the veterans of that conflict, at least from the psyche of the general populace.

All that remained open for Dante was word of his son's safety, which was everything. This time, a remarkably small number of parents would suffer the devastation of having lost a child in action. He prayed he wouldn't be among those unlucky few. Of all wars, this might be the most difficult for a family in terms of accepting a casualty. One would have to wonder: "Why me?" Several deaths had already been attributed to "Friendly Fire," a term that made Dante cringe. He'd seen that in Vietnam, had nearly been victimized himself. If his son had been killed in that manner, he would rather not know. He would prefer to go to his grave thinking Junior had been felled by the enemy. He would not demand an investigation. He accepted the fact that in war young men were killed, at times through error or incompetence.

Leaving St. Dominic's one night, he was hailed from behind.

"Ay, Ange," he said, smiling, extending a hand to a balding, overweight middle-age man. "I saw ya in deah. I didn' know you wa religiss."

Angelo's expression was grave. "I wasn't 'til the las' coupla yeahs. God's been good to me."

"Glad to hear it."

They resumed walking. The streets were active with people returning from work. Daylight was fading in the area, one typical of Brooklyn: relatively clean, rather cramped, distinguished by two, three, and four family dwellings; an occasional apartment building; a variety of trees; small gardens, many of which featured a statuette of a religious figure; and curbs lined from one end of a block to the other with parked automobiles.

"I'll prob'bly stop goin' soon as my kid gets back," said Dante. "If he don' come back, I'll neva go again."

"Crazy, ain't it?"

Dante nodded. "Yeah. I'm the bigges' hypacrite goin'. Everybody okay by yous? Nobody's sick aw nothin', I hope."

"Nah."

He awaited amplification. None came. "So hah come ya religiss alluva sudden, if ya don' mine my askin'? Ya get hit by lightnin' like Saint Paul?"

Angelo looked away, obviously pained. "I neva tol' nobody befaw. It's hahd."

Dante was puzzled. If the family was in good health, what could be so troubling? "Ya don' gotta tell me nothin', Ange. Who'm I? Keep it between you an' God. I got a lot things on my head I neva tol' nobody."

"I been keepin' it inside the las' few yeahs, an' it's been eatin' me up. I almos' told ya a coupla times befaw. I know yi'd neva tell nobody. Yaw one'a the few stand up guys left."

Maintaining pace along the sidewalk, Dante looked at Angelo, who gazed about as if he feared being overheard. Angelo spoke softly.

"My kid was deah the night dey killed the moolinyon."

Dante's eyes spread briefly. Were he in Sal's position, he would tell no one. He was irked and surprised, irked because he would rather have not known, and surprised because he thought he'd known everyone who had been present.

"He saw the whole thing."

"Keep it to yaself, Ange. I know what ya mus' be goin' t'rough, but ya betta awf neva tawkin' about it. I'm jus' glad my kid wasn't deah. He knows all dose douche bags. It's one time I was glad he was out tryin' to bang some broad. I hope dose bastids rot in jeahl."

He regretted his words, realizing he'd inadvertently berated Angelo's son. To his relief, Angelo was too preoccupied to note the insult. Dante wondered if Angelo had confessed this to a priest. He wouldn't have himself, as the priest may have tried to persuade him to go to the police.

"He says he didn' do nothin', but I dunno. I know he didn' pull the trigga, but I rememba he came home wit' a bat dat night. I could tell by 'is face somethin' was up. What a beatin' I gave 'im when I saw it on the news."

Dante was unable to squelch curiousity. "He know a gun was deah?"

"He says 'no,' but I dunno. We awl know hah stupit kids can be. Dey only think'a the nex' minute, not hah somethin' like dat can screw up the resta ya life."

Angelo's words faded into the background as Dante's thoughts fled to his son. He still felt the effects of combat 20 years after the fact. How would Junior be affected? Dante recalled how invincible he'd felt at 19. He would never have dreamed that the killing he'd done and witnessed would remain with him so vividly. He supposed it would remain with him until his dying day. It might diminish further in intensity, its images occurring even more sporadically than they had prior to his son's departure, but he was resigned to the fact that he would never be entirely free of them. After all, his father's experiences were nearly a half century old and still vivid. Their separate wars defined their lives.

Suddenly, like a cold blast of March wind, he was struck by the thought that his son was dead. Every nerve in his body was in rebellion. It was only logical - it was the penalty he had to pay for his sins. Although he realized his reasoning was faulty, given that he'd survived despite his father's multitude of sins, he was unable to chase the spectre of death that had seized him. Did it stem from the fact that he'd enlisted wanting to kill? he wondered. Of that he was certainly guilty. And why had he wanted to kill? He sensed it was not only because he believed communism threatened the American way of life, but because of his anger with his father. Why, then, was his own son, who had no hostility toward him, so fascinated by the way of the warrior? What was it inside men that drove them to behave thusly? It occurred to him, 25 years after the fact, that his father would not have grieved had he been killed: therefore, his death would not have been a legitimate penalty for his father's sins. On the other hand, Junior's death would definitely be so for his own sins. Maybe God had finally caught up with him for having run out on his comrades in arms, for having, in effect, deserted them. He wanted to tell Angelo to shut up, to stop whining about his son's penny-ante quandary.

"...Why'd dey hafta kill 'im?" Angelo lamented. "Why couttn't dey jus' t'row 'em the beatin's dey deserved an' take awf? I know dose zams wa up to no good - lookin' to buy a cah at nine-o'clock at night in Bensinhurst. Who'a dey foolin'? Deah's def'nitely somethin' fuhgazy deah. But why kill 'im an' bring dat fat bastid an' every moolinyon in the city down on us? If dey'd'a kept it to a beatin', the mools woulda marched once aw twice an' crawled back inta the woodwork. Dey still won' let it die. De'ah worse den the Judotzes wit' the holycaust."

"Ya know, he saprised me when he fuhgave the giuche who stabbed 'im. Dat showed me somethin'. If he wants everybody to fuhgive 'is own people for deah crimes, he's gotta fuhgive ahs. Maybe he ain't the phony we all thought he was. It was like when the pope fuhgave the sfacheem who shot him. An' he gave a nice tawk dat time at Saint Dom's. He had the pits to show up. Dat's one thing he's got fuh shaw."

Angelo dismissed this with a wave. "He only does it to make us look bad, to make it look like he's better'n us. He ain't foolin' me."

Dante was about to say that whatever had motivated Sharpton in those incidents was irrelevant, then realized he'd already said too much. He'd done something incredibly foolish - praise the Reverend Al Sharpton publically in Bensonhurst. He gazed about, hoping no one had heard him.

"Two yeahs," said Angelo, frustrated, the index and middle finger of his right hand extended for emphasis; "two yeahs I been crappin' my pants every night 'spectin' the cops to come by. I keahn't believe nobody gave 'im up. He woulda cracked too. He's the nerviss type like 'is motha. No way he woulda been able to handle it, to do the right thing an' keep 'is mout' shut like the otha kids. He makes me ashamed."

"He's just a kid," said Dante. "Dat's a lot to put on a kid's head."

"He wanted to turn 'imself in!"

Angelo strained to suppress his tone, gazing about. No one was within earshot.

"Ya believe dat? Sixty yeahs my fam'ly's on the block - sixty yeahs! An' the sissy was ready to piss it awl away jus' like dat." He snapped his fingers. "My motha an' fatha came heah not speakin' a word'a English. My ol' man worked 'is colyoans awf to give us a good life - an' the gutless little finauk was ready to t'row it awl away in one shot. We woulda had'a move. People woulda been on us day an' night. I wasn't gonna let 'im do dat, not ova some moolinyon. He was cryin' like a little finauk." He imitated his son's wail. "Dat's why I think he done somethin', othawise why would he feel so guilty? I got so mad. I ripped down awl dese postahs he had'a coon at'letes an' singahs in 'is room. Lucky fuh me God was watchin' out fer us. I hope he's watchin' out fuh you too, Dan. You deserve it. Yaw kid's a hero, somebody to be proud'a."

"Dis racial stuff's bad news."

"It wasn't racial!" Again Sal gazed about, ruing his tone. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Dat's the way the news' guys play it up, but de'ah full of it. Dat zam dat useta hang out wit' dem was deah too, gettin' 'is licks in. It was awl the fault'a dat bootahn spic. She put the bug in awl deah eahs, sayin' 'er zam frien's wa comin' down to fight."

Dante did not respond, knowing arguement would be futile and risky. He believed the perpetrators hadn't gotten less than they'd deserved. If he'd been in Angelo's place, however, he doubted he would have acted any differently. He would not have allowed his family to be imperiled over someone who could no longer be helped. He was not sure his position would have been different had the young man been only crippled. He was reminded of Vietnam. On two occasions the members of his unit had allowed a wounded comrade to lay in the line of fire and absorb bullet after bullet to an extremity, each calculated to lure others into a rescue attempt that almost certainly would have ended in death. No one had had the will to end either man's misery with a round to the head. All the survivors could do was weep, seek revenge at another time. The screams, the guilt they aroused, were seared into his memory.

He feared a black presence in the neighborhood as much as anyone, but also abhorred the behavior and attitudes of many of his neighbors. He'd fought side by side with blacks in Vietnam and, while none had been what he would call a friend, he'd had great respect for most of them. One of the aspects that had surprised him most in the service was the racial unrest that was prevalent, which even occasionally spilled over into the field, where one would have thought unity would automatically forge to increase the odds of everyone's survival. Once, his C.O., irate over such friction, shouted: "We're all niggers out here; get it into your thick skulls." The statement jolted everyone, restored common sense for a time.

Parting from Angelo, his gaze immediately fixed upon the mailbox. He'd been thinking about it all day, as he had for many days now. What would the news do to him? Would he throw himself on the floor and bawl? Would he be driven insane?

Finding nothing out of the ordinary, his body uncoiled and grew weak. He took down the flag, which was suspended from the overhang of the porch, and folded it reverently, as he had each day since the start of the war. He dared not forget even once for fear of bad luck.

"Daddy?" his daughter called, exiting her room.

His stomach contracted at the sight of the tension in her face. What did it mean? Had there been a telegram, a phone call?

"Wha'?" he said, almost snapped, bracing for the worst.

"Nothing. Hi."

He caught a glimpse of the interior of her room. The door was ajar. Blue circles were swirling in the light cast by the lamp on her desk, where a textbook lay open. She'd become bold enough to sneak an occasional smoke in the house. Did this account for her tension? He fought the urge to rebuke her.

She followed him into the kitchen and sat facing him, elbows on the table. He opened a can of beer, crossed his legs, and leaned back, feigning ease. He hated drinking in front of her.

"Daddy," she said, avoiding his gaze; "is it okay if I go to college?"

He felt relief flush through him and tried to conceal it. He suspected the glaze in his eyes gave it away.

"Shaw. Ya thought I'd say 'no'?"

Relieved, she smiled. "I wasn't sure. You were always telling Danny you wanted him to go, but you never said anything to me."

"Sahry, mommy. I shoulda. I guess I ain't up wit' the times. I still got a lotta - what'd dey call it in the sixdees? - 'male chauvaniss pig' in me."

She glowed. He melted with pride, humbled by her beauty. She was even more attractive than her mother had been at 18, and that was saying a lot. He would have thought his genes would have diminished rather than enhanced that beauty.

"I was thinkin' I'd go to Kingsborough to start out, to see if I can handle it, then transfer to a four-year school. This way it wouldn't cost you so much. I could even ride my bike there when the weather's nice to save on car fare."

He looked her in the eye. "Ya too good to us, mommy. Kids'a sapposta give ya ahgihda. Ya neva gave us none. We'ah so lucky kimpeahed to some fam'lies on the block."

She flushed, pulling her dark hair away from her face, a characteristic of her mother's in the days when she'd worn her hair long. "I can't wait 'til Junior gets home. It's gonna be like the Fourth of July."

Dante smiled. "Yeah." And just as quickly as it had arisen, the smile vanished. "Ya kin go to a faw-yeah cahlidge if ya want. Ya motha's workin', the house's paid awf. We ain't igzac'ly paw, ya know. I been puttin' money away since ya brotha was bawn, in case he wannid to go. Ya kin use dat."

"But what if he changes his mind and wants to go?"

"We'll worry about it den. Deah's awways a way. Don' worry."

"Thanks, Daddy." She seemed on the verge of tears. "I wanna go to Kingsborough first, though."

"Whateva ya want. Whattaya gonna take up?"

"I don't know. What d'you think I should?"

He shrugged. "Somethin' dat'll help make the world betta. It needs a lotta help."

She chuckled, deep dark eyes sparkling.

"The way taxes keep goin' up, ya betta get an edjacation so ya kin help keep up wit' the bills."

"Oh! That reminds me. Mommy called. She's gonna be late again."

He masked his feelings. His daughter seemed to suspect nothing. He was glad. "D'jeet?"

She shook her head.

"Orda a pizza. I'm gonna take a showah."

He passed the evening in the living room, scanning each of the city's dailies, searching for anything that might tell him something about his son. The stereo was tuned to an all-news station. There were no new developements in the Gulf.

At the sound of the opening of the front gate he sprang to his feet and to the corner of a window. Gazing past the vertical blinds, he spied a cab pulling away from the curb. Deanna had been receiving vouchers from her employer. Apparently her lover had clout. Was it the boss himself? Dante wondered. It would not surprise him. Why else would she have an affair if not to trade up?

She paused at the foot of the porch, took a last pull at a cigarette, and flicked it toward the street. To Dante, the fact that she was smoking again was further proof of her infidelity. He could not fathom why this was, but he was certain of it. He hopped back to the couch.

"Dee?" he said, peering out from behind a newspaper, feet propped on the coffee table.

She was unbuttoning her coat. "We're never gonna get done. The merger's killing us. They wanted me to work all night and stay in a hotel, but I wanted to come home."

He admired her inventiveness. Then again, she'd had the entire ride from Manhattan to rehearse. She hadn't given him the slightest opening to probe. He was almost proud of her intelligence, of having landed such a prize. Only she wasn't his at the moment. If only he were a bit dumber, he thought, she would've fooled him. For the first time in his life he felt a profound contempt for her that was not spontaneous, momentary, but embedded, lasting. Their son was in peril - and she was having an affair! It wasn't enough that his sins might doom their child, she had added her own as well. People never ceased to amaze him. They were capable of anything. Then again, why should this have surprised him, given what he'd seen and done in Vietnam.

Suddenly it occurred to him that she may have undertaken the affair to punish him for having allowed Junior to enlist. He was certain she would leave him if Junior.... He repressed the emotion the thought conjured.

"Any word?" she said, tense.

He shook his head, and returned to the article he'd been scanning.

"Is Jo Jo in her room?"

"She's doin' 'er homework."

While she was visiting their daughter, Dante poured himself a large glass of red wine, which he hoped would help him sleep. Although he'd suspected Deanna of infidelity for some time, he'd doubted himself enough to keep his emotions at bay. Now that he was all but certain, the thought of getting into bed with her revolted him. Images of what she may have been doing with her lover flashed through his mind mercilessly. He feared the slightest brush would betray his revulsion and incite an arguement from which the truth would spring. It wasn't time for that, however. Adultery was minor compared to his anxiety about his son. It was clearly gaining momentum in his thoughts, however. Soon it would be foremost, at least if his son returned alive, intact. Still, he balked at going to bed. He was tempted to get drunk, numb. He'd gotten into bed angry at Deanna many times, but never had he been disgusted by her. He refilled the glass, although over-indulgence in red wine had a tendency to make him cranky. Deanna was already in bed when he entered the room. Fortunately, he fell asleep quickly.

He soon found himself in a familiar place thick with foliage, damp with dew, and smelling of the Fourth of July. The moon, although full, provided little illumination. The blackness was vanquished occasionally by the flight of a roman candle and the passage of bottle rockets. The noise was deafening, cherry bombs exploding everywhere, aerial bombs overhead. Oohs and ahs arose from the darkness. A huge crowd was observing the display. He was a much younger man now, smiling, enjoying the pyrotechnics. Soon he was afraid, however, as someone called out something about birds on the wire. He looked up at the phone lines, a sparkler in each hand, and saw nothing. He was alone amongst the crowd, heart pounding. His pores opened. Perpspiration coated his flesh. He could feel the grime on his face. Suddenly he was older, middle-aged. And it dawned on him that it wasn't a fireworks exhibition he was watching, although it bore the aspects of one. "Here they come," someone shouted, raising up and firing a rifle. He crouched in a hole in the ground, the shooting so intense he dared not lift his head lest it be blown off. Tiny, fiery projectiles, not bottle rockets, peppered the sand bags around him. "Open up, Genteel, open up!" someone shouted urgently in a southern drawl. Suddenly he realized it was he who was being addressed. How he hated the mispronunciation of his name. Would they ever get it right? Angered, he sprang erect and joined the fray, crying out as he sprayed the shadows ahead. Phantoms were running everywhere in different directions. "Chinese fire drill," said Mr. Mitko, his ninth grade gym teacher, observing from the platform from which he conducted the class. He was constantly whirling and firing, whirling and firing, the phantoms no longer directly ahead but all around him. He held his ground, standing tall as fiery missiles whizzed past him like thousands of cigarette butts flicked into the night by a thousand Deannas. There was no sense crouching or laying low - he was going to get it, anyway. He would not allow it to happen to him while he was on his belly. And he was going to take as many of the shadows with him as he could. There was no front, no unit. It was every man for himself in separate, decisive engagements. Spinning, he nailed one in the hip and saw a weapon fly against the moon. Turning in the nick of time, he put a burst into a belly and barely flinched as a bayonet grazed his calf and stuck in the ground beside his boot. "C'mon!" he said. "C'mon!" He yelled like a cowboy as a flare, not a roman candle, tore through the night, illuminating the swarm. To his right, a few yards away in another foxhole, a shadow was inserting the tip of a rifle into the mouth of someone who lay wounded, helpless. "Nooooo!' he cried, squeezing off a round a fraction of a second too late to make the save yet striking the target, which fell, then struggled to rise, to regain its form. He raced toward it and knocked it flat with the sole of his boot. Foliage was growing from the top of the phantom, which lay at his feet, at his mercy. Was it antlers? Why would a deer be in disguise? He gazed more closely and found a pair of slanted eyes rivetted in terror. Suddenly everything became clear. He knew exactly where he was. He inserted the tip of his weapon between the thin lips and past teeth that fought defiantly against violation, and fired repeatedly, shouting at each burst: "Deah!" "Deah!" Suddenly the face was a different one. It was Junior's. "Nooooo!" he cried, too late, having fired. He crumpled to the earth, wailing.

He awoke screaming, resisting those who'd taken hold of him.

"Daddy!" a girl shouted, weeping. "Daddy!"

He ceased his struggle abruptly and stared dumbly at the faces before him.

"Daddy?" said Jo Jo breathlessly, cheeks wet with tears.

These were not phantoms. His face flushed with shame. "He's dead," he moaned, weeping pitifully, taking his loved ones in his arms. "He's dead! I killed 'im."

"Who?" said mother and daughter simultaneously.

"Junya."

Deanna pulled away from him and looked into his eyes. "It was just a dream," she said curtly.

He hung his head. "He's dead, I tell ya. I know it."

Jo Jo gazed at her mother as if to question the claim's validity.

"He's not dead," said Deanna firmly. "He'll be home before you know it."

He stared blankly, unconvinced.

"Go back to bed, Jo," said Deanna.

"But, Ma...."

"Go to bed!"

"Go 'head, mommy," said her father. "I'm okay now. I'm sahry I woke ya up."

Jo Jo bit her lip and left the room. Deanna poised herself at the edge of the bed, keeping a space between her husband and herself. Was she afraid or repulsed? Dante wondered. He related the dream, somberly.

"This's the first time you've ever said anything to me about the war," said Deanna quietly. "When you came back a lot of the light was gone from your eyes. I felt so sorry for you."

Was that why she'd married him? he wondered. "Dat's not I want from you."

She rose abruptly, then turned to him with anger in her eyes. "Is my son gonna be this way too?" she choked. "Damn you if he is - damn you."

He reached out to her, and she backed away. He was crushed. She looked away, tense, almost as if she regretted her coldness.

"Do you think you have that delayed stress thing?"

"Twenny yeahs latah? C'mon. It only came back 'cause I'm so worried about Junya. Things happen in waw an' ya jus' gotta live wit' 'em. It's the same fuh every grunt." He lowered his head. "'cept for the paw guys who don' make it back. De'ah the only ones who got somethin' to complain about."

"If it happens again, I want you to see a doctor."

He lifted his head. "No."

She left the room. A moment later he smelled a cigarette burning. The contempt he'd felt for her prior to having fallen asleep rushed to the surface. He clutched at the edge of the mattress, fighting it. He hoped he'd made her feel guilty, hoped he'd incited a pang of conscience within her that would be as debilitating and debasing as combat. Why wasn't she having nightmares? he wondered, bitter. Did it prove the purity of the soul of women? Then again, if her soul were pure, what was she doing having an affair?

In the morning he tapped at Jo Jo's door. When she bid him entry, he closed the door behind him. She was already dressed for school.

"Sahry 'bout las' night, mommy," he said softly.

She came to his arms sniffling. "I was so scared. What happened? I never saw you like that before. You're always so strong."

Shame flushed through him, as if he'd failed her.

"Siddown."

They poised themselves at the edge of the bed, as Deanna and he had last night, with similar tension between them.

"You heard about Vietnam, right?"

"We didn't cover it in school for too long."

He lowered his head. "Figyahs. We lawst. Everybody wants'a fuhget about it."

It was utterly astounding to him that this child of his flesh and blood, born just four years after his return from the jungle, did not have even a trace of the war in her blood. How was it that the event that had had the most profound effect on his life had not found a way into her genes? Was there, then, hope for the world? Was it truly reborn at each generation? Would there someday be a generation born totally free of the sins of the past?

"I always remember Danny asking you about it."

She listened intently as he related an edited version of the dream. When he finished she said, puzzled: "Why do guys love that stuff?"

He shrugged. "We think we do 'til we get deah. Maybe we'ah trained from the time we'ah smawl; maybe it's just ah naycha. Who knows? It's up to us to do it, though. Sometimes ya keahn't get around it, an' it keahn't get done by itself. We gotta protec' ah countries an' fam'lies - you, mommy, gran'ma. Ya keahn't pray aw tawk aw wish evil things away. Soonah or latah dey find ya, an' ya wind up havin' to fight 'em, anyway. Maybe it's jus' the devil buttin' in. I dunno."

At work he was quiet and kept to himself as much as possible. At lunch time he went for a walk, hoping the activity in the streets would divert him. It was as if he were alone, lost. He wasn't bouncing back as quickly as he normally would.

Turning back toward the convention center, he was hailed from behind. He pretended not to hear, but Sandy persisted.

"C'meah," he said urgently, grinning, jerking a hand violently toward himself.

Sandy, Cheech and Tony were gathered beside an old sedan parked at a curb. A plain, hippie-like woman of about 30 was seated on the passenger side, holding a display panel upon which souvenir pins and buttons were affixed. Dante sensed the boys were up to no good.

"Look at dis, Dan," said Tony, reaching past the open window and pointing to an impressive figure in a headdress."Who's dat?"

Dante played along, smiling broadly, steeling himself for the punchline.

"Chief Licabona, ain't it?"

He ground his teeth to keep from laughing. "Dat's him, awright, the nex' to last'a the Mohegans."

Cheech and Sandy turned away, sniggering, pulling at each other. The woman stared dumbly, apparently embarassed by her ignorance.

"She neva heard of 'im," said Tony. "Believe dat?"

"Reahly? He was at Little Big Hawn wit' Sittin' Bull an' Crazy Horse."

Now Cheech and Sandy, unable to hold out any longer, backed away, guffawing.

"Chief Licabona - Lick-a-bona," said Tony emphatically. "He's just as faymiss as Cochise an' Geronimo."

"Hah much?" said Dante, feeling sorry for the woman, reaching for his billfold.

He gave the pin to Tony.

"You keep it," said Tony.

"Nah. Give it to Johnny Boy. Little guys love dat stuff."

"Lemme give ya the money."

Dante grasped Tony's hand as it was reaching toward his back pocket. "Fuhget it. Ya made my day, ya sick bastid."

The four entered the building laughing, Cheech and Sandy leading, eager to relate the tale. Suddenly Dante had found hope that his son was alive.

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