Saving Grace

27

Old Gill still stood by the faded jukebox, as if he hadn't moved an inch since the last time I'd seen him. That same scowl was etched into his wrinkled face as Sinatra's dreamy voice poured out from behind him, filling up the black-wood bar and its golden lights in a colossally beautiful tone.

Looking around, it seemed that nothing had changed except the ever-rotating roster of customers. Tonight, there were two enormous Englishmen at the bar who were talking sports over a couple pints, a young lovesick couple sitting in one of the hard leather booths along the back wall, a broken old man guzzling hard liquor at a table and a young man sitting with his arms outstretched, watching the races on a muted telly. However, my sympathies mostly lied with a particular attendee – a janitor at the back of the room, mopping up someone else's sick while the sweat dripped down his round face. I offered him a nod and took a seat at the bar beside the giants from Manchester.

A thousand thoughts were racing through my mind as I loosened my tie and ordered a double. Of course, the sweet memory of Grace's almost kiss was at the forefront of these thoughts, but weaved between those bursts of joy was the most paralysing fear, brought on by the memories of all those late nights with my father, telling me stories about the transgressions of Godric Mikhailov. Conjured images of knife attacks and shootings and bank robberies played out like a horror movie behind my eyes until my body began to tremble and my heart began to race.

Just as I leaned forward over my drink, head in my hands, the sound of the small gold bell hanging from the main entrance doorframe rang out in the most alarming way. The hinges squealed as the door was shoved open, screeching like a tortured animal screaming into the night. Then, the overwhelming scent of bitter cologne, sweat, and metal wafted in. I didn't even have to turn around to know who it was.

Godric, all six foot seven of him, lowered himself on the stool beside me, facing the back of the room. Silently, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a white cigarette with the filter crushed flat. I cocked my head when I saw the strange Russian smoke, but before I could give it any thought, the bartender – who foolishly didn't bother to look Godric in the face – waltzed over and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Hey, no smoking in here, mate."

In one swift, clean movement, Godric ripped this man's hand away, broke three of his fingers, and slammed his palm down on the bar. I reeled back, almost falling off the stool as the poor guy let out the most awful cry, his pitiful wail silencing the entire room. Godric, with the hardest, most menacing eyes, leered in.

"I will smoke where I want to smoke, alright, mate?"

The bartender heard that crippling Russian accent and looked at Godric with the widest, most terrified eyes.

"Mr Mikhailov," he gasped. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry!"

His body descended into a violent seizure-like tremble and Godric leaned in even closer so their noses could just barely touch. Everyone in the room had their eyes locked onto the pair of them as we held our collective breath, waiting for Godric to finish him. Only, he didn't. With absurd casualness, he flicked the bartender's hand away and turned around to finish his smoke.

"This is alright," he said. "I forgive this time. Tell doctor you have hairline fractures along bases of your first, second and third phalanges. And bring me an ashtray."

The boy fell to the floor in a gasping, quivering mess before scurrying out the back like a kicked dog. Godric cleared his throat; stared at the back wall and everyone in the room – even the enormously loud Englishmen – were locked in a wide-eyed freeze-frame, staring at him in stunned silence.

"So, after all these years, Richard, you finally call. How are you, old friend?"

He glanced at me sideways and I couldn't move. Every muscle, tendon and inch of my skin was pulled dangerously taut, shaking as they were all preparing to snap. Godric raised an eyebrow.

"Are you alright, Richard?"

Oh, God. He was talking to me. I blinked, tried to swallow the lump in my throat.

"F-fine," I lied. "Just... fine."

I downed the rest of my drink in one greedy gulp. Godric smiled.

"Well, it seems that you were not only gifted with your father's looks but also his passive, moral outlook."

I turned back around, a triple in hand and Godric snatched it from my grasp. He met my eyes with a disquieting determination and brought the glass to his lips.

"It's been long time, Richard. I know you wouldn't call unless I was all you had left, and whatever you needed wasn't of a brighter shade. So, tell me, why am I here?"

I gulped, leaned in, and on some measurement of Dutch courage, looked him in the eye.

"At my father's funeral, you made me an offer. You gave me a card with your contact details and you said that if I ever needed anything that I was to call you." I paused, cleared my throat. "My father used to tell me stories about you, so I know exactly what you're capable of. I know what..."

"Get to the point, Richard."

I paused, biting my lip.

"I need you to find a man named Jack Russo," I whispered, "and I need you to do something really, really awful."

***

"She's... God, she's so scared, Godric. She's not sleeping or eating. It's like she's waiting for Russo to rock up one of these nights and murder her in her sleep. Come to think it," I chuckled bitterly, "I think we both are."

The quiet clink-clank of the new bartender washing pint glasses and filling up bowls of cashews echoed throughout the empty room. Godric took a long drag of his cigarette.

"Alright," he said, tapping it against the ashtray. "Are there any... specifics, about how you'd like him to look when we're finished, or where others may find him?"

I leaned back, narrowed my eyes. Then I realised what he meant.

"Oh, wait, no," I said. "I don't want you to, ahem, you know. Just scare him. Make it clear that he's not to come around anymore, that's all."

Godric sighed, crushed out his cigarette and turned to face me.

"Richard," he said, "I know you are good kid, but this isn't... how things work, in my world. We don't 'scare', we eliminate, and we are very good."

"I don't want anybody to die, Godric."

"Yes, but when people are left to breathe, they become liabilities – loose ends that if pulled, can cause our utter unravelling."

"There must be another option."

"You aren't listening, Richard. It must be this way, or I cannot help you."

There were a million guilt-soaked thoughts that both ran and crawled through my conscious mind. Some were ethical, some were practical. All of them screamed for me to say no. But Grace... Oh, Grace... She was in there, too, with her big eyes and her smoky vanilla perfume, and she did what she always did – made me say yes.

"They'll never tie it back to us?"

Godric laughed at me.

"Richard," he tsked, "who do you think you are talking to?"

I pressed my lips together, eyes lowered.

"Alright," I said. "Do it."

I bit my lip as Godric stood from his seat and shrugged his jacket on.

"You are good man, Richard. Athelstan is proud."

I couldn't bring myself to look him the eye and so he left without another word, leaving his crushed-filter fags still smoking on the Sinatra Stroll bar.

© A.G. Travers 2018