Mario Muscar

12 Days of Fiction

 

I had an idea. An idea that would make the perfect gift for people this holiday season. Story. Creation. Narrative. All for free.

 

So I contacted some people I know who I thought might make a good fit. People who have a creative streak and have something to say. People from different backgrounds and different ways of expressing themselves.

 

Each day for 12 days, new material will be released. It's our gift to you. Happy Holidays. Celebrate story.

A chapter from Stateside, an unpublished novel

by Ande Parks

 

            The Savoy Grill, at Ninth and Central, was busy through the day Sunday. First the early regulars; mainly older men who talked politics and exchanged gossip over their poached eggs and coffee. Then the well-to-do families, still dressed in their finest for church services. Even after sitting through interminable sermons, the children of Kansas City's social elite behaved themselves at the Savoy. The main dining room, with its dark paneling and black-jacketed waiters, set an ominous stage. One that commanded respect.

 

            Axel Maguire had a regular reservation for Sunday afternoon. After seeing his family home from church, he sat at a booth he had chosen carefully. It provided a clear view of the table often occupied in previous years by Boss Tom Pendergast. Throughout the Prohibition Era, Boss Tom had run Kansas City. Now, having served a stint in Leavenworth, he was living out what few days he had left trapped inside a mansion on Ward Parkway Boulevard. For Maguire, the Boss's old seat was a reminder that careless men got caught... that they died on someone else's terms.

 

            Maguire showed up promptly at two, with his driver/bodyguard, an enormous Osage Indian named Estes Hightower. The Maitre d' greeted them and took Hightower's hat. Maguire always kept his fedora on until he was seated. It was a serious breach of etiquette in such a formal setting, but the management never complained. It was better for all concerned for Maguire's features to remain obscured until he was secure in the privacy of his booth.

 

            The waiter, a portly middle-aged man named Jacob, brought Maguire and Hightower the usual: black coffee for Hightower, tomato juice with a splash of clam broth and a bourbon straight up for Maguire.

 

            “There's a new batch of cinnamon rolls coming out of the oven now,” Jacob said. “I'll bring a basket as soon as they're ready. Will you be having the usual lunch, Mister Maguire?”

 

            “The wife made eggs this morning, Jacob. Just the rolls, thank you,” Maguire replied. “Estes? There's time.”

 

            Hightower turned his head slightly toward the waiter, without losing sight of the Savoy's entrance. “Frog's legs. Two orders.”

 

            “Of course, and for starters? We have the lobster bisque, or the—”

 

            “Just the legs. Two orders.”

 

            Hightower drank his coffee and watched the door. Maguire read through the Sunday edition of The Kansas City Star for the second time. Eight pairs of fried frog's legs arrived, seated on a plate with only a silver dish of tartar sauce, a stocking-covered lemon half and a parsley garnish to keep them company.

 

            “We're expecting someone, Jacob,” Maguire said. “A pot of coffee for the table.”

 

            Wallace Collins showed up for his appointment seven minutes early and walked straight to the table, holding his hat with trembling hands.

 

            Hightower rose from his seat. He stood a full foot taller than the small man in the ill-fitting black suit. Hightower gestured for Collins to take a seat in the booth, across from Maguire. Collins did so without making eye contact with the Indian. When Hightower reclaimed his seat, his bulk forced the small man against the paneling. Without a word, Hightower poured a cup of coffee and set it in front of Collins. Maguire was invisible behind his newspaper. He stayed that way for nearly a minute. Finally, he folded the paper neatly and laid it on the table.            

 

            Maguire sat back in the booth, his head and shoulders completely obscured by shadows. “Afternoon, Wallace,” he said. “My god, I will never understand how you wear all that black in such an oppressive heat.”

 

            Collins said nothing. He attempted a grin that came across more as a smirk. The small man tried to hide behind his coffee cup.

 

            “Listen to the radio at all today?” Maguire asked.

 

            Collins lowered his cup to its saucer with a rattle. “No, sir.”

 

            “I wake at five o'clock, Wallace. Every day. The world is quiet then. A man can get a lot done... a lot of thinking that becomes impossible in the regular chatter of the world. I like that time before dawn, the dark, quiet hours. I read the paper and I take my morning walk. A brisk three miles every day, rain or shine. I imagine there are times when Estes here could do without that part of the schedule.”

 

            Hightower sucked the white flesh from a frog bone.

 

            “After my walk, I settle in for breakfast and I listen to the radio. A little music. News, mostly. You can catch the items that didn't quite make the paper each morning. Important items, from time to time. There was some news like that on the radio this morning, Wallace. 'Fatalities feared in overnight blaze on Campbell Street.' That's what the announcer said.”

 

            Maguire leaned forward, his head becoming fully visible. Collins stared down at the table. “Now, of course, fires happen all the time. People die. That's a fact of the world, especially when it's hot like it is now. That's part of why I find our arrangement so convenient. Still, it's something of a coincidence. So, forgive me, Wallace, but I feel compelled to ask: You know anything about this?”

 

            Collins looked up, but avoided making eye contact. “No, sir. We had a understanding.”

 

            “Yes, we did. An understanding that has served us both well, thus far. I felt certain that our understanding was crystal clear... that you fully comprehended what was expected.”

 

            “Yes, sir.”

 

            “Yes. Do something for me now, Wallace, please. You see the family seated directly to my left? The parents with the young daughter?”

 

            Collins looked at the table to his right. “Yes, sir.”

 

            “Good. Just watch them for a minute. Watch them intently. Do not look away from their faces. It's very important. You understand?”

 

            Collins nodded and managed a barely audible “Yes.”

 

            Maguire rose from the booth, leaving his hat behind. For the first time, his head was visible to the entire dining room. Somewhere across the room a butter knife fell. Maguire glanced back at Collins to see that he was watching. He was.

 

            The parents were young, thirty at the most. The daughter was four or five. She wore a yellow dress with a matching bow in her blond hair. The dress was attractive, but plain, as were the parents' clothes. Smiling as best he could, Maguire approached the father. “I hope you'll forgive the interruption, but I felt compelled to congratulate you on your good fortune. I would guess there isn't a man in the entire city who finds himself accompanied by a pair of such lovely ladies.”

 

            Maguire looked across the table in time to catch the mother moving a hand to her daughter's shoulder. The girl's face was frozen in an expression just shy of terror. “So lovely,” Maguire repeated before returning his gaze to the father. “Is it a special occasion?”

 

            The father stammered his way through an explanation of their visit. They'd just moved to the city, and he'd promised his family a nice lunch once the unpacking was completed.

 

            “I see,” Maguire said as he turned toward the daughter. “And how do you like your new home, young lady?”

 

            The girl's composure shattered. She turned away from Maguire, clutching at her mother's arm. She bit her lower lip hard, stifling a scream. The mother leaned over to embrace the girl. Father sputtered an apology to Maguire's back.

 

            Maguire continued to stare at the girl as his smile disappeared. “Not at all,” he said. “I'm sure it's been a long day. Church services, the heat, and now a strange man intruding so rudely. I will pay your entire bill, of course.”

 

            The father began to protest. Maguire turned and cut him off with a wave. “I insist. Please, enjoy the rest of your meal. I'll make sure Jacob brings something wonderful for dessert.”

 

            Maguire returned to his booth. He leaned across the table, and into the light. The cordial tone vanished from his voice. “You were watching, Wallace? You saw the girl?”

 

            Collins nodded, his gaze fixed on his coffee cup. Maguire's voice was sharp as rifle fire. “You look me in the fucking eye when I'm talking to you.”

 

            Hightower looked up as he dropped the last of the frog bones to his plate. Collins stared at what was left of the right side of Axel Maguire's face. Maguire watched Collins' eyes carefully, noting every minute, horrified reaction as the small man was forced to confront what Maguire had been living with for decades.

 

            The right eye was gone. The lid had been stitched shut over an empty socket. The flesh around the eye was scarred beyond the point of resembling human skin. There was no eyebrow. No lashes. The scarring continued, wrapping around Maguire's head to a raw nub that had once been an ear. The right side of the scalp was barren. On the left, the hair was long and black, with vibrant streaks of gray. Maguire kept it slicked and plastered down with tonic. The damage continued in an arc down the right side of the nose. The right nostril had been partially destroyed, as had the right corner of the mouth. The scarred areas of Maguire's face were almost completely immobile, the agonized expression captured and preserved from its moment of creation.

 

            Collins had seen the face several times before. He did his best to remain unmoved, and failed.

 

            “That's what I deal with every day,” Maguire said. “The look in that little girl's eyes. I don't wear an eye patch. I don't wear a tin mask, painted with a fake smile. What I wear are these scars,  because I want everyone to know what I've been through... what I've suffered. The Great War took a lot from me, Wallace, and now this war is going to pay it back. Every damn penny, and more. It's going to pay enough for my children and their children to live such that they never have to experience what I have, and there is no way in God's creation a little shit-stain like you is going to jeopardize that.”

 

            Maguire leaned further across the table. Collins flinched backwards. “I pay you well, Wallace. While you work for me you burn what I tell you to burn and nothing more. If the police come sniffing around because you've been careless, I won't give you up. I'll simply tell Estes here to take you apart, piece by piece.”

 

            Maguire reached out and grabbed Collins' right hand. He pulled the small man across the table so hard that Collins had to rise to his feet. “Do I make myself entirely clear, Wallace?”

 

            “Yes. Sir.”

 

            Maguire released Collins' hand. The small man fell back into the booth. He bent to pick his hat from off the floor under the table, then glanced nervously at Hightower. The Indian wiped his mouth before dragging himself to his feet. He stood outside the booth and waved his hand in an arc toward the front door. Collins scrambled out, dancing his way around the parents who were still trying to soothe their child.

 

            Maguire composed himself, smoothing his hair with the palm of his left hand. He called Jacob over, asking for his checks, and a bag for the remaining cinnamon rolls. His wife adored them.

 

            “You think he was responsible for the fire, Estes?” Maguire asked once Jacob had left.

 

            The Indian pondered and finished his coffee. “Likely so,” he replied.

 

            Maguire nodded. “The next few months will determine everything. We can't afford to lose him. Not now. The man may be a degenerate, but he's unique. Useful. Just... watch him.”

 

            Estes Hightower nodded. Axel Maguire downed his bourbon and leaned back into the shadows.