Hey Guys,
I own nothing to do with CSI NY. Michael Caffee is a character from Brotherhood. I don't own him either, I'm just borrowing him for this story.
This opening chapter just sets the scene….
Please, read and review.
Chapter One
"Whiskey?"
"Sure. I'll take a drink with you."
The old man lifted down a bottle of whiskey and two glasses, shuffling back to the table, his footsteps weak and stumbling, shuffling through the deserted bar. His eyes, though, were bright and clear, staring at his guest with penetrating, clear blue eyes. He uncorked the bottle, trickling the amber liquid into the glasses. He lifted one, saluting, "Slainte!"
"Slainte!"
The old man drank deeply, draining the glass. His guest didn't, sipping at the whiskey, dark eyes darting around the bar, studying the pictures, the flags on the walls, tattered memories, a proud history clung to like a shroud.
"Do you want another?"
He shook his head, setting his glass on the table.
"Do you mind if I…"
"Its your bar, Tommy." He sighed heavily, wrapping his thick fingers around the glass in front of him. "You can drink with who you like."
The old man laughed, pouring himself another drink, his eyes darting between his glass and his guest. "How's your mother?"
"Good. She's good. I haven't been home in a while."
"None of us have."
"Yeah." He leaned forward suddenly, resting his arms on the table, looming above the old man. "With all due respect, Tommy, why the fuck am I here?"
The old man looked down at his drink, swirling the whiskey inside, staring at the patterns it made against the glass. "And your brother?"
"My brother's good. So is his family" He lifted the glass again, frowning, taking another drink. "You said you wanted to talk, Tommy. So talk. Why am I here?"
"I remember his wedding day. Your father would have been so proud to see him married and a fine family around him. Your father would have been proud of both of his boys."
"You didn't ask me here to talk about my father. Or my family. What's going on, Tommy?"
"I've known you and yours a long time. Damn near raised you after your father passed away, God rest his soul. I need your help." The old man sighed, pouring himself another drink. "God help me, I need your help. I got no one else I can turn to."
"My help?" He frowned, toying with his glass. "Where's Declan? I don't want to step on his toes."
"It's cos of Declan that I'm turning to you. The damn bastards got him. They got my boy up at Rikers on some trumped up charges."
"How long is he looking at?"
The old man shrugged. "Too long. Too long away from his family and his responsibilities. Too long for my boy." He looked up at him, his face old, his eyes faded, watery with unshed tears, an old man grieving for a son's sins. "I need your help, Michael. I need your help with these damn McCanns."
He stayed silent, staring at the half drank whiskey in the bottom of the glass. He remembered Declan. He'd do well at Rikers. Probably be running the fucking place by the time he came out.
"I'm asking for your help, Michael." The old man's voice had turned cold, ancient and dark as a grave. "It's not right to make me ask twice. It's not right to make me beg you to help me."
"Okay." He lifted the glass, saluting the old man sitting opposite him, draining the last of the whiskey. "I'll help you."
"Thank you, Michael!" The old man lifted the bottle again, filling their glasses. "God bless you, son! You do your father proud. He hated James McCann too. Always said he was a piece of shit."
"Is that right?"
"God's honest truth, Michael."
He settled back as the old man started to talk, listening to the old stories, the old litany of sins and crimes, his blood stirring at the old man's words.
Michael Caffee had no time for the McCanns either.
xxxXXXxxx
He tried to struggle, tried to fight, tried to free himself from the strong, grasping hands, pinning him down to the cold concrete.
"Hold him down lads! Hold that fucker down!"
Hands, the fingers digging into his skin, holding him down. He screamed, squirming against the concrete, trying to escape their grasp. The hands chasing after him like ghosts, reluctant to let him escape.
Just for an instant, a second, they lost their grip on his legs.
He kicked out blindly, unable to generate much power or accuracy. Almost smiling as he felt his boot connect solidly with one of his attackers, slamming into his stomach, the air driven from his lungs with an explosive gasp.
"Fuck!"
Almost free, almost able to slip away. He could almost taste freedom. Scrambling to his knees, their hands slipping across his shoulders like fish hooks, not biting deep enough into his flesh. He'd remember who they were, would remember their faces when he told Tim…
A fist driven hard into his face. Knocking him back into their grips, the hook like fingers grabbing greedily at his shoulders. Holding him still, holding him steady for the waiting, ready fist to slam into his face with a sickening wet crunch.
Again.
Again.
Stars swimming across his vision.
Looming over him, holding him upright by his shirt, fist cocked, ready for another blow to slam into his face.
"Enough." The voice was cold, commanding. Used to being obeyed. He strained to hear, to pick out the accent. He didn't recognise the voice. "Look at me." The accent was thick, but upstate, not a local, not from New York.
A hand twisted in his hair, dragging his face up. He squinted up at the man standing over him, peering at him through swollen eyes. He spat on the ground, a tooth mixed with his own blood. "Who the fuck are you?"
"You're Samuel McCann, aren't you?"
"You're going to regret this." He tried to smile, swollen and bloodied lips twitching grotesquely. "You stupid dumb hick bastard. You're going to regret this when my friends find out what you've done."
He didn't respond, staring down at the struggling man with dispassionate, cold eyes, his hands bunched in the pockets of his leather jacket. "Are you Samuel McCann?"
"You stupid, dumb…"
"Answer the man!" Another blow driven into his side, dragged upright by the solid grip on him. "Answer the man, you stupid McCann fuck."
"Stop." Cold eyes flicked towards the men clustered around him, then darted back to the man pinned on the ground. "Are you Samuel McCann?"
Despite himself, he shivered, the eyes slipping across his body. Picking apart the weakness, the vulnerabilities….
"Are you…"
"YES!!!"
The man smiled, cold, cruel. "I have a message for you." He took his hand out of his pocket, a small, snub nosed pistol clutched in his gloved hand. "And for your friends." He stepped forward, putting the pistol against Samuel's knee, his finger tightening around the trigger.
He wanted to fight, wanted to jerk away. Wanted to do anything other than just lie there and wait for the shock of pain.
Helpless to do anything other than watch, hypnotised by those cold, cruel, dispassionate serpent's eyes
"This is from the Auld Man."
He pulled the trigger and Samuel McCann screamed, the flare of the gun sharp and bright in the cold night, his leg disappearing in a wave of pain, rushing down from the bullet lodged within his shattered knee.
"You still with us, Sammy?"
He prodded him with his boot, pressing against the bullet. Samuel moaned, fresh waves of pain rushing through him, burning across his nerves, his nostrils still filled with the smell of gunpowder, burned into his skin.
"Got a message for you to take." He leaned closer, close enough for Samuel to smell his cologne, to feel the heat of his breath against his skin. "Tell James McCann that Michael Caffee says hello."
They left him there, lying in the cold, dark New York street, waiting for the sound of sirens.
End of Chapter One.