Chum

Southie at night's a ghost town. Just the occasional mutt yapping in the distance, probably at its own shadow. I pull up to our little rendezvous spot - some decrepit warehouse by the waterfront. Sean's ride's already there, plus a couple I don't recognize. Great.

Climbing out of the car, I get that familiar cocktail of butterflies and dread in my gut. These pow-wows? Always a roll of the dice, even for an old hand like me. But Sean said it was urgent, something about our next play.

I ease into the warehouse, one hand resting casual-like on the piece tucked in my waistband. Inside, Sean's huddled up with a few faces from this afternoon's shindig. They're muttering like a bunch of altar boys, but clock me as I saunter over.

"Finn," Sean nods, all business. "Glad you could pencil us in."

"Cut the horseshit, Sean," I growl. "We already did the big circle jerk. What's this about?"

Sean trades looks with his chorus line. Something unspoken ping-pongs between 'em. "This ain't about family business," he says finally. "It's about what comes next. Our ticket to ride."

I narrow my eyes. Don't like the stink of this one bit. "The hell you on about?"

"You heard Callahan last week," Sean presses on. "He's just pissing in the wind. Talking change but keeping his feet planted in the mud. Some of us? We're not keen on watching everything we've built turn to shit."

My gut does a little jig. Nothing good ever came from a sentence starting with 'some of us.' "Spit it out, Sean. What're you cooking up in that Irish skull of yours?"

He leans in close, voice dropping to a whisper that wouldn't wake a mouse. "We're thinking of jumping ship. Starting our own gig. One that's ready for whatever clusterfuck is coming our way. And we want you on board, Finn."

I stare at him, brain working overtime. A splinter group? It's unheard of. The kind of play that gets you fitted for concrete shoes. But then again… wasn't I just chewing on this same bone? The need for real change, not just rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic?

"You're talking about giving Callahan and the family the finger," I say, measuring each word. "You boys have any idea how quick that'll get us all six feet under?"

Sean nods, face grim as a funeral director. "We know the score. But if we don't evolve, we're dead anyway. Just a matter of time before someone decides to put us out to pasture."

I'm about to tell Sean where he can shove his evolution when the warehouse door explodes open. A pack of goons comes storming in, hardware out and ready to play. I recognize 'em right off - they're from that crew we've been butting heads with. Russkies, I think.

"Vell, vell, vell," their boss drawls, mangling his W's like they owe him money. "Vat do ve have here? A little family gathering, da?"

Sean and the others reach for their pieces, but it's a losing hand. We're outgunned and outmanned. I do some quick math - odds of us all walking out of here with a pulse? Maybe 10%, and that's being generous.

But before anyone can start the lead symphony, something happens that'll be burned into my gray matter till they plant me. A figure drops from the rafters, landing smack in the middle of our little soiree. Moves like a cat, dressed all in black, face hidden behind a mask that'd give kids nightmares.

For a hot second, everyone's frozen. Then Captain Spandex speaks up, voice warped like he's gargling gravel. "Gentlemen," he says, cool as you please, "I'm afraid I'll have to insist you lower your weapons."

The Russian boss lets out a laugh that'd curdle milk. "And who the fuck are you supposed to be? Batman's retarded stepchild?"

Masked wonder doesn't bite. Instead, he moves. And brother, when I say move, I mean it's like watching smoke dance. One second he's standing there, the next he's a blur. Guns go flying like they've grown wings. I watch, jaw on the floor, as he dismantles the Russkies one by one. It's poetry in motion, if poetry could break bones and rupture internal organs.

It's like something ripped straight out of the funny pages. Only this ain't funny, and it sure as hell ain't pages either.

When the dust settles, the Russians are a groaning heap on the floor. Our masked friend stands over them like the angel of death himself. He turns to us, and I swear on my mother's grave, I can feel his eyes boring into me through that mask.

"You have a choice," he says, calm as Sunday morning. "Continue down this road, and you'll end up like these gentlemen. Or you can walk away. Start fresh. The decision is yours."

And then, like someone hit a switch, he's gone. Melted into the shadows like he was never there.

The warehouse goes quiet as a tomb. Then Sean starts laughing, edge of hysteria in it. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he wheezes. "Tell me you lads saw that too. Or has O'Malley's rotgut finally pickled my brain?"

I don't answer. Can't. I'm too busy staring at the spot where our friendly neighborhood vigilante stood, mind doing cartwheels. Because in that moment, something inside me shifted. Like tumblers in a lock finally clicking into place.

I've spent my whole life in this world. Violence, crime, always looking over my shoulder. Told myself it was just the way things were, no other options on the menu. But seeing that masked figure move, watching him take apart a room full of armed thugs without breaking a sweat…

There's always a choice.

The rest of the night's a goddamn fever dream. Cops show up, of course. Sirens wailing like banshees, drawn by reports of lead flying. But by the time Boston's finest grace us with their presence, the Russkies have vanished into the ether. No sign of our friendly neighborhood Batman, either. Just a bunch of mooks with a yarn no one in their right mind would swallow.

Driving home, my brain's doing the cha-cha with a million what-ifs. Sean's sales pitch keeps looping in my head like a broken record. "We're thinking of branching off. Starting our own operation." It's got a certain ring to it, being my own boss. Building something that's mine, not just another cog in Callahan's machine. But then again…

I think of Derek, probably drooling on his pillow right about now. That promise I made him, to always be there. How the fuck am I supposed to keep that if I'm off playing Scarface, painting an even bigger target on my back?

I need a second opinion. Someone to talk me off the ledge or give me a push. And I know just the sorry bastard for the job.

I pull up outside Mikey Flanagan's place. His porch light's on, a warm little beacon in the night. Mikey and me, we go way back. To the days when running numbers in Southie was our idea of the big leagues. He's the closest thing to a best friend a mook like me's got in this life.

He answers the door looking like death warmed over, bathrobe hanging off him like a deflated balloon. "Finn?" he squints at me, confusion written all over his mug. "The hell you doing here? It's the ass-crack of dawn."

"Yeah, I know," I shrug, trying to look apologetic and probably failing miserably. "I just… I gotta bend your ear, Mikey. Some heavy shit went down tonight, and I'm swimming in the deep end here."

He stares at me for a long moment, then lets out a sigh that sounds like it started somewhere around his toes. "Christ on a bike," he mutters, stepping back. "Get in here. I'll put on some joe."

We park ourselves at his kitchen table, nursing mugs of coffee that could strip paint. I spill my guts - the sitdown with Callahan, Sean's grand plan, the warehouse shitshow. Mikey just listens, face screwed up in concentration like he's trying to solve a Rubik's cube.

"I don't know, Finn," he says when I finally run out of steam. "Going against the family… that's playing with fire. People have ended up in the harbor for less."

I nod, staring into my coffee like it might have all the answers. "I hear ya. But I can't shake this feeling, Mikey. Like if I don't make a move, I'm gonna end up dead or wearing an orange jumpsuit. And where does that leave Derek?"

Mikey goes quiet, fingers doing a little tap dance on the table. "Look," he says finally, "I get it. You want out. Want something better for the kid. Respect. But hitching your wagon to Sean and his merry band of idiots? That ain't the ticket."

I frown, not sure I'm following. "What're you getting at?"

Mikey leans in, face serious as a heart attack. "I'm saying, if you really want out, really want a clean slate… maybe it's time to think about blowing this popsicle stand altogether. Fresh start somewhere new. Where Finn Taylor's just another schmuck, not a name that makes people nervous."

I stare at him, the idea taking root like a weed. Leave Boston? It's like someone suggesting I cut off my own arm. This city, this life… it's all I've ever known.

But then Derek's face pops into my head. The future I want for him. A future without looking over our shoulders, without the constant threat of violence that comes with this world.

"Where the hell would I go?" I ask, voice barely above a whisper.

Mikey shrugs. "Anywhere that ain't here. New York, Chicago, Philly… someplace they won't come looking."

It's a batshit crazy idea. Packing up and vanishing like a fart in the wind, starting from scratch in a new city. But the more I chew on it, the more it feels right. Like the first step down a road I should've taken ages ago.

"I'd have to be careful," I mutter, thinking out loud. "Make sure nobody gets wind of what I'm up to. And I'd need some kind of legit front, something to explain why I'm suddenly playing musical cities."

Mikey nods, a sly grin creeping across his face. "Construction, maybe? Word on the street is Philly's going through a growth spurt. Old neighborhoods getting a facelift. A smart cookie like you, with your, uh, 'experience'… you could make that work."

I lean back, the possibilities unfolding in my mind like a roadmap. It's terrifying. Exhilarating. Like standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing the only way forward is to jump.

"It's not gonna be easy," I say, more to myself than to Mikey. "Gotta figure out how to move my money without raising flags. Set up a new identity. Find a school for Derek… a new babysitter, too…"

Mikey reaches across the table, claps me on the shoulder. "One step at a time, brother. Rome wasn't built in a day, and neither was any decent escape plan."

I look at him, really look at him. This guy who's been by my side through thick and thin. "What about you, Mikey? You ever think about getting out?"

He shakes his head, a sad smile on his face. "Nah. This is my world, for better or worse. But you? You've got something worth fighting for. Something worth leaving for."

As the first light of dawn starts to creep through the kitchen window, I feel something I haven't felt in years. Hope. It's small, fragile, like a flickering candle. But it's there.

"Alright," I say, downing the last of my coffee. "Let's do this. Let's get me the fuck out of Boston."

The next few weeks are a goddamn three-ring circus of whispered phone calls and cloak-and-dagger bullshit. I'm burning up every favor I've got in Philly, calling in chits from guys who owe me or who I've pulled out of the fire over the years. Slowly, like a jigsaw puzzle put together by a drunk, a plan starts to take shape.

I feed Callahan some song and dance about family drama, needing time off to sort it out. He ain't thrilled, but he doesn't push. Think the old bastard can smell which way the wind's blowing, knows the good old days are circling the drain.

Sean and his merry band of idiots are a tougher nut to crack. They keep yapping about their big plans, trying to rope me in like it's the second coming of Christ. But I stand my ground, keep playing the worried dad card. "Gotta think about my boy," I tell 'em. "What's best for him." It's not even a lie, really.

And through all this cloak-and-dagger bullshit, Derek's my guiding light. My reason for not telling everyone to go fuck themselves and crawling into a bottle. Every night, tucking him in, I remember that promise. To be there, come hell or high water.

Then, finally, D-Day arrives. I've spun some yarn about taking Derek to see his grandparents up in Maine for a couple weeks. But as I'm tetris-ing the last of our crap into the car, I know we ain't coming back.

I take a breather, looking up at the old brownstone we've called home for the last five years. It ain't much, but it's all Derek's ever known. For a hot second, I wonder if I'm royally screwing the pooch here, yanking him out by the roots like this.

But then I think about the flip side. About the life waiting for him if we stay put. And I know in my bones this is the only play left.

Derek's out cold in his car seat as I pull away from the curb, his face all peaceful in the glow of the street lamps. As I merge onto the highway, this weird calm settles over me. Like for once in my sorry life, I'm not completely fucking things up.

And then, as I'm crossing the bridge out of Boston, I see it. A figure, honest to God, swinging between the buildings like some kind of urban Tarzan. For a second, I think I've finally lost my marbles. But then I catch the flutter of a cape, something glinting at the figure's wrists.

I ease off the gas, rubbernecking like a tourist. But quicker than a hiccup, the figure's gone, swallowed up by the city's shadows.

I feel a grin tugging at my face. Because right then and there, I know I'm making the right call. The world's shifting gears, and I'm shifting with it. Not by jumping on Sean's half-assed bandwagon or trying to be the next Scarface, but by walking away. Choosing a different path entirely.

As Boston's lights start to fade in the rearview, I glance back at Derek, still dead to the world. "We're gonna be alright, kiddo," I mutter, not sure if I'm talking to him or myself. "You and me? We're gonna be just fine."

The highway stretches out ahead, dark and empty. But for the first time in forever, it doesn't feel like I'm driving into the unknown. It feels like I'm driving towards something. Something better.

I think about that masked figure, about the choice he laid out for us in that warehouse. Continue down this road and end up like them, or walk away. Start fresh.

Well, buddy, I'm walking away. And yeah, maybe I'm trading one set of problems for another. Maybe Philly won't be the promised land. But at least it's a chance. A shot at something different.

As we cross the state line, leaving Massachusetts in the dust, I feel something I haven't felt in years. Hope. Real, honest-to-God hope. It's small, fragile, like a match flame in a storm. But it's there.

"Alright, Philly," I mutter, pressing down on the gas. "Show me what you got."

Derek stirs in his sleep, mumbling something I can't quite catch. I reach back, give his leg a gentle squeeze. "Sweet dreams, kiddo," I whisper. "When you wake up, it's gonna be a whole new world."