Chum

The Clover & Harp is a dive, dimly lit and hazy with a fog of cigarette smoke that clings to every surface. The air's thick with the mingled scents of stale beer, cheap whiskey, and the acrid tang of old ashtrays. I'm nursing a pint of Guinness, the dark liquid leaving a creamy mustache on my lip as I keep my eyes glued to the battered old TV bolted above the bar. Some blow-dried pretty boy in an expensive suit is yammering on about the Dow Jones or the NASDAQ, but I'm only half-listening until a breaking news banner scrolls urgently across the bottom of the screen.

"We interrupt this broadcast for an urgent update," the anchorman announces, his plastic smile replaced by a look of barely-contained excitement. "Moments ago, a masked vigilante singlehandedly thwarted an armed robbery at the First National Bank in downtown Chicago. Eyewitnesses report that the individual, who identified himself only as 'Windstorm', appeared to create some sort of windstorm to disarm the would-be thieves and secure the building until authorities could arrive on scene."

A chorus of irritated groans and colorful curses erupts from the bar patrons around me. I glance around, taking in the familiar faces - guys I've known for years, men I've worked with, fought beside, shared countless drinks with. Every last one of them wears the same expression of incredulous frustration.

"You believe this malarkey?" Tommy O'Malley gripes from his usual perch at the end of the bar. He's a scrawny little pissant, but the man's got a head for figures like a steel trap. "First it was that Paragon mook in the Big Apple, now we got Mary Poppins in the Windy City. What's next, some jabroni in Beantown who can shoot spaghetti out his eyes?"

A gust of half-hearted laughter ripples through the bar, but beneath it there's an undercurrent of unease. We're all thinking the same thing, even if nobody wants to come right out and say it: this is a whole new ballgame.

"It ain't just Chicago," Mikey Flanagan pipes up, not looking up from where he's thumbing through something on his phone. "Says here they've had sightings in L.A., Miami, even out in the sticks in Omaha. These masked marauders are croppin' up everywhere."

I take a long pull off my Guinness, relishing the rich, bitter flavor even as dread curdles in my gut. On the TV, they're showing shaky camera footage of this Windstorm character in action. He's decked out in some kinda high-tech getup that looks like it was ripped straight outta one of Derek's comic books, all sleek angles and shiny black material. As I watch, he makes a gesture like he's shoo-ing away a pack of seagulls and a gale force wind howls outta nowhere, sending the robbers ass-over-teakettle across the pavement.

"Christ on a cracker," I mutter into my beer. "How the hell are we supposed to keep up with that?"

Nobody's got an answer for me. We all just sit there like a bunch of slack-jawed yokels, watching this Windstorm fella wrap up the would-be bank robbers in a twister that looks like it should be chasing Dorothy and Toto. It's like something straight outta the funny pages, 'cept it's really happening, right here in the real world.

I find myself thinking about my boy, just a sprout at four years old. What kind of world is he gonna grow up in, a world where people can take to the skies, where they can whistle up a tempest without so much as scuffing their spats? It's enough to make a man feel downright tiny, like everything I've fought for, everything I've bled to build, could be blown down by the Big Bad Wolf in a cape.

Old Jimmy Sullivan, the barkeep, clears his throat pointedly from behind the taps. "Alright, boys," he declares, reaching for the remote. "Enough o' this, yeah? The Sox are takin' on the Yankees tonight. Grumble about that instead."

There's a rumble of approval from the assembled hard men, and soon enough the idiot box is awash in the familiar sights and sounds of America's pastime. But there's a pall hanging over the bar now, a miasma of doubt and insecurity that no amount of beer and bullshit can quite seem to pierce. In the space of a few minutes, everything we took for granted as immutable, inviolable, has been thrown into Barnum and Bailey levels of upheaval.

I motion for Jimmy to refresh my pint glass, watching the dark liquid surge and foam. He meets my gaze as he slides it over, a flicker of grim understanding passing between us. The whole wide world's tilting on its axis, and it's on us to find our footing before we're pitched into the void.

As the night wears on and the booze keeps flowing, the chatter slowly migrates back towards more well-trod territory - schemes and scams, dames and deadbeats, cutthroat tales of the daily grind. But there's a tension thrumming just below the surface, a jittery edge to the laughter and the ribbing. Every so often, some mook will cast a nervous glance towards the boob tube like he's expecting to see Mighty Mouse come squeaking in to save the day and upend our entire raison d'etre.

And as my mind drifts to the trials and tribulations of the past few months - the pinches and the turf squabbles, the ever-present specter of the G-men breathing down our necks - I can't help but feel the walls closing in. The center cannot hold, as the poet said, and things fall apart. These masked interlopers capering about might just be the feather that breaks the camel's back.

The memories come in flashes, like a fever dream:

Mikey Doyle, one of our best earners, getting picked up by the feds outside his kid's school. The look on his face as they slapped the cuffs on him, a mixture of resignation and fury.

A shootout with the Italians down by the docks, the air thick with gunsmoke and the smell of blood. Three of our guys dead, another two in the hospital. All over a fucking shipment of cigarettes.

Sitting in a safe house, watching the news as they announce another round of indictments. Familiar names and faces scrolling across the screen, guys I've known for years reduced to mugshots and charges.

The boss, old man Callahan, ranting and raving about loyalty and tradition while half the room is eyeing the exits. His words ringing hollow in the face of mounting evidence that the old ways just don't work anymore.

My boy, asking why Daddy has to go away so much. The guilt that twists in my gut every time I have to lie to him, every time I miss another milestone because I'm out doing the family's dirty work.

A late-night meeting with some of the younger guys, all of us trying to figure out how to adapt to this new world. Talk of going legit, of finding new revenue streams that won't put us in the crosshairs of these super-powered freaks. The fear in everyone's eyes, poorly disguised behind bravado and bullshit.

I give myself a mental shake, trying to dislodge the cobwebs of memory. The Clover & Harp has started to clear out, just a smattering of bitter-enders left huddled over their drinks, arguing the finer points of the Sox's starting rotation. I steal a glance at my watch and do a double take - it's later than I thought. I better hit the bricks, try to snatch a few winks before the big powwow with the head honchos tomorrow.

As I heave myself up from my stool, Tommy O'Malley catches my eye. "Oi, Finn," he says, his voice pitched low and conspiratorial. "You hear about the sit-down tomorrow?"

I bob my head. "Yeah, what of it?"

Tommy makes a show of scoping out the joint, making sure no one's eavesdropping. "Word 'round the campfire is, the big man's thinking of shaking things up. Adjusting to the new lay of the land, if you catch my drift."

A prickle of apprehension skitters down my spine. "Shaking things up how?"

Tommy lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug. "Ain't sure on the specifics. But I heard him jawing about maybe expanding our horizons, moving into some new markets. Maybe even… you know, throwing in with some of these caped crusaders."

I can feel my eyebrows skyrocketing at that little tidbit. The notion of our crew partnering up with a bunch of goody-goody superheroes seems about as plausible as the Pope popping up in Playgirl. But then again, the world's gone topsy-turvy of late. "You sure your info's on the up-and-up, Tommy? Sounds a few scoops shy of a sundae to me."

"Hey, I calls 'em like I sees 'em," Tommy says, throwing up his hands. "But think on this, Finn. The times, they are a-changin'. Maybe we gotta roll with the punches, ya know?"

I dip my chin, not sure how to counter that particular chestnut. "Yeah, could be. Guess we'll see which way the wind blows tomorrow, huh?"

Tommy hoists his glass in a sardonic salute. "From your mouth to God's ear, boyo. From your mouth to God's ear."

The brisk night air is a slap to the face as I push through the doors of the Clover & Harp, a much-needed wake-up call. The streets of Southie are deserted at this hour, just the odd car beetling by and the far-off wail of a siren. I hoof it nice and slow, mitts jammed deep in my trouser pockets, my brain churning like a hamster on an exercise wheel. My thoughts keep circling back to my little fella, to the life I want for him. A life that feels more like a pipe dream with every day that passes.

I flash back to the first time I cradled him in my arms, this squalling, red-faced little miracle. The way his itty-bitty fingers latched onto mine, the surge of love and fierce protectiveness that near knocked me on my ass. I made him a promise then and there that I'd always have his back, that I'd move heaven and earth to give him a better shake than I ever had.

But how do I make good on that vow in a world that's hurtling into uncharted territory? A world where mooks in tights can bend steel and shoot flames from their fingertips? Where the old rules that've kept us on the straight and narrow for generations are going the way of the dodo?

I hang a louie onto my block and happen across a gaggle of neighborhood kids embroiled in a heated street hockey battle. They're a whirling dervish of laughter and shit-talk, utterly absorbed in their game. One of 'em, a scrappy little carrot-top, glances up as I amble by. For a hot second, I swear it's my boy's face peering out at me, and it hits me like a sledgehammer to the solar plexus.

What sorta role model am I for my boy? What kinda foundation am I laying for his future?

The familiar smells of home embraces me as I let myself into my humble abode. Derek's playthings are strewn hither and yon across the living room carpet, and I can hear Mrs. O'Brien, the sainted soul who watches him when I'm on the clock, sawing logs on the couch.

I creep into Derek's room on tiptoes. The little tyke's sawing logs too, his orange fuzz sticking up every which way, his favorite plush pooch clutched to his chest. I just stand there for a long spell, watching the steady rise and fall of his breathing. He's so calm, so blameless. Not a clue about the shitstorm brewing in the big, bad world beyond. He doesn't understand death. He doesn't even comprehend it.

As I'm about to duck out, something on his nightstand snags my attention. It's a finger painting he must've done at nursery school, a stick figure with arms like tree trunks and a cape flapping in the breeze. Underneath, in Mrs. O'Brien's flowery script, it says "My Dad is a Superhero".

I feel something buckle deep down in my guts. Like some inner levy giving way, unleashing a tsunami of pent-up feelings I've kept dammed up too damn long. All of a sudden, the prospect of marching into that meeting tomorrow, of staying on this treadmill I've been running on for years, feels ass-backwards. Like I'm selling out everything that truly counts.

I lower myself onto the edge of Derek's wee bed, mindful not to jostle him out of dreamland. I ain't sure yet what my play is. But I know in my marrow that something's gotta give. For Derek's sake, for my own damn sanity. I can't keep straddling two worlds, can't keep acting like my actions don't ripple outwards.

Sitting there in the dark, my boy's soft snores filling my ears, I come to a decision. Tomorrow, at that meeting, I'm gonna stand up on my hind legs. I'm gonna make a case for real, substantive change, not just some phony-baloney razzle-dazzle to kowtow to the higher-ups. And if they ain't keen to listen… well, then maybe it's time I start giving some serious thought to a Plan B.

I dip down and brush a teeny kiss against Derek's forehead. "Love you to the moon and back, squirt," I rasp. "More than anything in this world. And I promise you, I'm gonna do right by you. No matter what it takes."