365

jun.13.22

The first time I saw a person die was when I held them in my arms, and prayed for the life of me that they'd pull through, even though they had six bullets lodged in them.

I'd had a nasty feeling in the pit of my gut all day, you know. I didn't know what it was. Everything around me had me on edge, you know; everything had me apprehensive.

But, it was another day. Another day, and we had a job to do. My boss – my father and the local drug lord, DeLuca – must have noticed something was wrong, because he gave me an extra clip and told me to watch the shadows.

My partner, James Warren Reardon, was in a good mood that day. He was going to propose to the girl he was seeing – lovely girl, he said, and she's got a smile that would make the sun shine on a clouded day. She was an artist, a painter, and he loved how she seemed to be every innocent thing he wasn't. Her name was Faith.

We had a deal downtown, closer to the heart of the city – looking back now, that was the first red flag, but we didn't see it then: too many people, too many blind spots. It was in a back alley off of Dominion Street, near a little movie house.

I remember my gun feeling heavy as hell, tucked under my jacket.

Well, we made the buy. And we didn't leave the alley. A couple of plainclothes had followed us, saw the exchange, and.... And they just started shooting. Slugged the two buyers instantly – one in the head, the other the chest – and James stood in front of the bullets meant for me.

When the cops ran out of bullets, James fell to his knees. I caught him, but he still pulled me down. And Christ Almighty.... There was so much fucken blood.... It was like it oozed out of the ground at my feet.

I couldn't hold onto James, I couldn't help him. He told me to tell his Faith that he loved her. Then his eyes rolled back, he stared at the cloudy sky.... And he died the way you'd expect somebody to die: they just slump and turn cold.

Those plainclothes bastards wanted to quiet me, but I had an extra clip. They came up to me, rocks in hand, and I.... I killed as indiscriminately and as carelessly as they did.

I hate myself for it to this day, but I had to leave him there. I got back, and DeLuca went mad thought he never raised his voice. James Reardon was one of the best.

About a week later, they said a bunch of windows at the cop shop were smashed out, and their cars were torched. And a note was left behind, and it simply said, "Your days are numbered."

DeLuca hated cops with a passion – it came naturally with the job – but after that, after James... he detested them. He loathed them. Every cop had to die if it crossed his path. He got a nickname on the street, "Cop Killer", but it was short-lived. His rage, like a caged beast tearing itself out, silenced them pretty quickly.

I never told Faith. I left a letter on her doorstep and rang the bell. I didn't have the guts to tell her in person. I didn't have the courage to tell her I couldn't stop her man's death. Why was I alive when he was dead, that I still don't know. And I couldn't tell her the reason. The letter said James was gone, that it was the cops, and that they wouldn't go unpunished.

A little while later, there were rumors saying Faith went to DeLuca with money, saying she wanted the families of the plainclothes to suffer as she did. It was never proven if he took her money, took her kill order – DeLuca was a secretive man of sorts, and if he didn't want you knowing something, you never knew a thing.

James was twenty five. He'd be in his seventies now.