The Devil And His Muse: A Gangster Story [On Indefinite Hiatus]

Fourth House Down The Lane

Fourth House Down The Lane

***

Matteo rode his bike to a tiny convenience store, not really knowing why he had to drop by one. He had a full pack of cigarettes in his backpack, and it unexpectedly occurred to him that he decided to get another lighter.

He realized that he was nervous.

Nervous? Matteo laughed a bitter laugh in his mind.

The first time he held a gun, he was only too eager to learn how to use it. When he sat down with Beatrice, a complete stranger then, as pale as a lily, to talk about his first hit, Matteo had been too careful to not feel anything but casualness with hardly a jitter in his body.

He was off to see Beatrice again, and it was far late in the afternoon. If Beatrice was baiting him for something, he found himself shaking the thought off. One thing had burned in his mind: he would not leave this world like how his father did, without a fight, and in front of unsuspecting family.

In the humid recesses of 7-11, he grabbed a Slurpee, a few pouches of chips, and his fingers paused midway as he reached for a box of chocolates. He let out a quiet, airy, laugh. Would Beatrice love chocolates like most girls? He dallied for a moment, foolishly staring at the piled trays of Ferrero when he heard a soft whistle behind him.

As though snapping out of a daydream, he turned to the source of the whistle; to his greatest surprise, which impelled him to mentally give himself a roundhouse kick, there was Ray Isidro, looking so much like your ordinary, neighborhood fellow in a short-sleeved polo and jeans. Ray was balding, so he always wore a newsboy cap; he still looked impeccable with his trimmed nails and bright white loafers.

Matteo scowled just a bit as he approached the man.

"It's a nice Saturday," Ray simply said. He was snacking on a pork bun.

"Are you following me?" Matteo fiercely whispered. He only realized when he momentarily parked the chips and drink on the table where Ray sat that he had taken a tray of chocolate. He swiftly shook his head to further clear his mind.

Ray continued to chew on his food.

"I just happened to pass by," the man replied, with a small, cheeky smile.

"You're spying on me," Matteo suggested, but sounding very much of a statement.

Ray lathered some sauce on the pork bun. "Eh," he rasped. "You were so much in the dumps last night, thought I'd check up on ya."

Matteo sighed. Ray was indeed like a watchful hawk over his head.

"I'm fine now," Matteo replied. He started to gather his purchases and make way to the counter.

Ray finished the last of his bun and dusted his fingers, the pinkies heavy with silver rings. "Were ya off to, kid? I can take ya."

Matteo gathered his things and was about to dart out the store.

"Nowhere."

"A friend's?"

Matteo stopped in his tracks. He didn't want to size Ray up—he was one of the men he formed a closeness with since his training days; Ray who bought him pizza every other night and gave him three bottles of expensive brandy for his eighteenth birthday. If any, Ray was quite family. Then again, mob outfits were called families, and were obliged to treat each other like blood relations if not for the occasional bite of treachery among other gangster clans.

Matteo found himself tight-lipped.

"A girlfriend's?" Ray was enjoying himself too much that his dimples, which rarely showed when he smiled, flashed like cavernous dots on his tanned cheeks.