1.1
A black shined up 1970 Dodge Challenger sat at the stoplight on a Friday night in Elko Nevada. Anyone that knew anything in that town knew exactly who was sitting in the driver's seat. And anyone that knew anything knew trouble was brewing when a racing orange Mustang pulled up beside it.
The Challenger's driver, Thomas Shelby, silently looked at the driver beside him. Billy Kimber stared back through narrowed eyes. He revved his engine, a powerful V8, and Thomas, Tommy, Shelby turned his head back to the road ahead, no emotion on his face.
Tommy's passenger could have said no emotion was necessary, for he knew his brother was the best racer in the tri-county area. But John Shelby wasn't stone cold like his brother. He took hold of the grab handle above his head and leaned forward to trash talk the competition.
"You think that neon piece of shit can handle Tommy's Challenger?" John roared, smug. "I've got news for you, Kimber. Tommy and me just put a brand new exhaust system on the old girl this morning. This bitch is gonna smoke you and your shitty Ford!"
The light blinked green, and both Tommy and Billy peeled out down the road. Billy took an early lead, but Tommy smoothly caught up. Up 3 car-lengths ahead, in Tommy's lane, a sedan petered along. He knew he was going to have to get around it, and do so in a manner that wouldn't get him stuck behind Billy. He knew if that happened, Billy would keep him behind him, swerving back and forth to keep him stuck in his rearview.
Tommy glanced ahead and mapped it all out in a split second before slamming down on the gas pedal and jumping ahead of Billy's Mustang. He jerked the car into the lane, narrowly missing the rear bumper of the small sedan. He then eased up on the gas directly in front of his opponent.
Now he was in the lead. He took advantage of his position and kept Billy trapped behind him, keeping him from passing by swinging between lanes.
John was hooping and hollering in excitement, sitting on the edge of his seat, already congratulating him on his clear win. Tommy, meanwhile, was cool and focused. He glanced at the clock face on his dash and then immediately back at the road ahead.
Tommy knew the road, and he knew that Billy Kimber knew the road. But Tommy knew the cops too, so when he was one block out from First Avenue, he made a hairpin turn to the left and barreled down the road until he was able to coast to the legal speed limit.
"What the fuck, Tommy? We had that one in the goddamn bag!" John yelled over the rumble of Tommy's Hemi, picking himself up from being plastered to the side of the door.
Thomas Shelby never took his eyes off the road, making a soft right turn as he spoke, "It's a Friday night at One Thirty in the morning. Officer Stanley is going to be rolling out of Kempf's Donut Hut at the corner of First and Fairway and he's going to see Billy Kimber in his orange Ford Mustang with BllyBA (Billy Bad Ass) plates hurtling down First Avenue."
John grinned, and sat back in his seat, smug with his older brother's genius foresight. Tommy had always been gifted that way, with an uncanny ability to think problems through and realize every possible outcome, planning for the worst and working towards the best. In John Shelby's opinion, it was most likely why his brother had raised the ranks as a Marine, and eventually was awarded the Medal of Honor and became the town hero.
Thomas made another right turn, making his way back to First Avenue, and as he came upon it, he looked down the way and saw distant flashing lights. John laughed, and slapped his knee.
"Serves that fuck right, damn coppers got 'em one tonight. Thank god it isn't me!" John bellowed as Tommy took them down the other end of the road, back towards town. The neon of Main Street glowed in the distance as they came up on it. "I'm buying your fucking beer tonight, brother!" John added, in full-on celebration mode.
Tommy pulled his Challenger up to the front entrance of the Red Lion Casino and stepped out. He dropped his keys in the hand of the valet boy that scurried to meet him. Tommy paid him no attention as he and John walked through the entrance and were greeted by each employee they passed.
Hospitable smiles, and eager workers paraded by, but Thomas Shelby never cracked a smile. This wasn't unusual though. Everyone that knew Tommy, knew his temperament and what had caused it. His own aunt, Polly Gray, cursed the day he signed up for the Marines, saying it was the goddamn war's fault. Iraq had changed him
The boys had reached the casino floor and were making their way across. John looked around at the action on the floor, strutting along as if he owned the place. They passed an old woman that had just hit a jackpot and he leaned over to give her a high-five in passing, despite never having met her in his life.
Tommy led his brother back past a velvet curtain into the high-roller lounge. It was dark and secluded. There was a bar on the back wall and a small stage at the other end. At a table in the center of the room, sat the oldest Shelby, Arthur, with a cigarette in hand.
All the Shelby boys were big spenders at the Red Lion, but even if they hadn't played a game in months they were still welcome to the VIP lounge. Part hometown pride for Thomas Shelby's military honor and his brother Arthur's service, and part fear of the rough and rowdy Shelby reputation kept the boys in high regard, with access to the best, and often-times it was on the house.
"Oh you shoulda seen it, Arthur!" John called out, sliding into a chair next to his brother, while Tommy took another. "Tommy whooped Billy Kimber's ass!"
"Well I fucking hope so. Don't tell me you're prone to losing to that bondo bucket of his," Arthur responded, twisting in his seat to look at his brother.
Tommy raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders, taking his seat.
"Best part is Billy's getting himself a fucked up speeding ticket. - Three beers!" John interrupted himself, yelling at the bartender across the room.
"And you didn't? How'd you get away with that? Was it a woman cop?" Arthur asked. "Tommy, you battin' your eyelashes and flexing your arms when she walked over?" The eldest Shelby joked, grinning, while lifting his beer glass and taking a large gulp.
"No." Tommy replied, also taking his beer. "Can I get a whiskey?" He asked the cocktail waitress before she scurried off. "I'm an upstanding citizen. I don't get speeding tickets."
His brothers burst out laughing.
"Fucking coppers. Not like Tommy's gonna hit nothing. He squeezed himself right in front of Billy." John bragged.
"Cops are swarming this area. Got the damn DEA here now. Sergeant Moss told me there's a shitload of 'em piling in. Trying to clean up the area or some nonsense." Arthur chimed in.
Tommy swirled the whiskey in his glass, listening to the conversation unfold. As everyone could have predicted, John started off on a rant against the police. As a somewhat frequent visitor of the county jail, he had grown to distrust the police force. Not to mention that they were crooked as hell, and most of them lined their pockets with Shelby money.
As his brothers became drunk on beer and self indulgent conversation, Tommy thought. Thought about Billy Kimber and the cops, and what his brother had told him about DEA agents in town.
Obviously meth had become a rampant problem in town, due to how simple it was for any dumbass to make it in his own kitchen. But surely there wasn't a whole group of federal agents swarming into town on that account. Elko wasn't big enough to merit that kind of attention.
No, Tommy had a pretty good idea why the DEA had come to town. And it didn't have anything to do with Meth heads.
…
About a week back, Tommy spotted a beautiful custom fender design on an SS Camaro, and he wanted it. It would have reduced the drag on the Camaro he used for races, and increase his speed and range of mobility on the track. But Thomas Shelby doesn't pay for car parts, especially when it comes to custom outfitting.
So he practiced the Shelby way of doing things, which was rounding up Charlie and Curly who had worked for the family since Tommy had been born and between the three of them they lifted that car for Tommy's collection.
Once the easy part was over, and they had it in the Shelby garage, the hard task of taking it apart fell to the men. Charlie and Curly had already taken off the side panel Tommy wanted, so he took it over to the other end of the garage to his own Camaro and set the task of piecing it together while the two finished up taking pieces off the stolen car to use for other projects.
"Uh, Tommy?" Charlie asked, interrupting Thomas' progress.
"Mmm?" He responded, still holding the side panel up to see how it would integrate.
"You might want to look at this," Charlie said, sounding apprehensive.
Of the hundreds of things Tommy could have guessed Charlie was about to point out to him, this was not any of them. In Charlie and Curly's hands were small, brick-shaped plastic bags, wrapped up in brown packing tape.
Tommy glanced from man to man, eyeballing the items they were holding, then back to the car, silent. Charlie and Curly were anxious now, waiting to see Tommy's final reaction.
Thomas Shelby was normally a calm man. He was quiet, reserved. He would analyze a situation before having any interaction. Which was quite unlike his brothers, who were quick to violence, and loud outbursts of emotion. But what made Charlie and Curly so unnerved by Tommy's silence now, was that he didn't always keep everything inside. Especially when in the company of close acquaintances, which Charlie and Curly were considered.
Tommy narrowed his eyes, and knelt down beside the stolen car. He lifted up the panel beside the one he'd had removed, and there stuffed inside, were more square, brick shaped packages wrapped up in tape. Tommy rose and walked towards Charlie and Curly and took one of the packages from their hands. He weighed it in his own hand before reaching into his back pocket and retrieving his pocket knife.
He cut into the package, and small chips of white crystal came out. He calmly inspected the substance as he put away his pocket knife, then sniffed it and tasted it on the tip of his tongue.
"Well boys, it looks like we have a fuck ton of cocaine on our hands now." Tommy said, sounding unimpressed. He handed the brick back to Charlie and strolled back over to his own car. "Put all of it back in there as you found it. Then take off the other side panel I want." He instructed.
Charlie and Curly silently breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that no violent outburst was coming and set to their task, diligently.
"Once you've got those off, put mine on in its place. Then start up the sprayer and we're going to paint it to match." Tommy added, laying down his own side panel on the workbench beside his car.
Both Charlie and Curly knew better than to question Tommy's orders or ask what they were working towards, so they just did as they were told. They had a little trouble fitting Tommy's side panels onto the stolen car, since they weren't shaped the same, but they finally got them on and looking passable.
It was almost dawn when they finished putting it together and Curly was about to start up the sprayer. "What color we gonna paint her, Tommy?" He asked, looking over the limited selection the Shelby garage had to offer.
"It's too late to start that now. Just cover her up with that old car tarp and push her into the back lot. We can finish it another night." Tommy told the men, and looked over his new side panels. "Put some red in that sprayer though, I'm going to paint these to match mine" He added, setting up a spraying spot.
"We can do that, Tommy. Go get some sleep." Charlie told him, scurrying to help out.
"No, I want to do it. Just finish up on that one and head home." Tommy told them, and set to his own task, the wheels turning in his head.
…
Cool morning air breezed down through Main Street and with it was a young woman walking down the street. Her long blonde hair was lightly curled and swayed in the breeze. She had on a plain dress and smart heels that clacked down the sidewalk as she walked.
The woman, a Grace Burgess, had just moved into town, set up her small apartment down the street last night, and was now on her way towards securing herself a job. Her sights were set on the Red Lion Casino. She'd found an opening on their website for a lounge singer, and was greatly interested.
Grace had always loved singing. Her father had fostered a love of music in her at a young age and she had participated in school performances all the way up to graduation. She even joined in on the occasional karaoke session during her university years.
However, Grace had never done anything like this. She'd never set her career on music. She'd been told time and time again that she had a beautiful voice. But she'd never tried making her income off of it before now. So she was nervous. But determined.
She stopped in front of the casino entrance and looked up at the tall flashing neon sign heralding the loosest slots in town and took a deep breath before walking in.
She was greeted by many smiling employee faces. No doubt, thinking she was a customer. She stepped onto the casino floor and the lights dimmed, the floor crowded with bright flashing slot machines. She took a good look around and walked the perimeter. She took notice of the location of the high dollar slots and passed by the table games before stepping up to an employee and asking for Harry Fenton, the bar manager, of who was referenced in the online job posting.
She was herded into a back room, and passed a thick velvet curtain to find a small lounge, complete with a small elevated stage in the back corner, a bar tucked into the wall on the other side, and cafe tables dotted around the room to sit and enjoy a beverage and the night's entertainment.
The room was mostly empty now, save for a middle aged gentleman behind the bar, who looked like he was juggling several drink orders at once, and a few clearly drunk gentlemen seated at the bar near him. Grace wondered how there could be drunks at a bar already at ten in the morning, but shoved that thought aside, approaching the middle aged bartender.
"Mr. Fenton?" Grace asked, and the middle aged man looked up at her as he deposited drinks to the men sitting in front of him.
"It's Harry. Are you needing a drink?" The man asked her, looking her up and down. "This is the VIP lounge, are you a member?"
"No, I'm actually here about your job posting for a lounge singer." Grace told the man while the drunks started laughing loudly beside her.
The man looked between her and his customers, noting her look of disdain at their raucousness and shook his head. "Lounge singer, here? Honey I don't think you're cut out for this job."
Grace furrowed her brow, "No, this is the job I want." She informed him, turning to the drunken gentlemen beside her and taking one of their hands.
She started singing, and Harry recognized the song as a popular alternative rock song from a couple decades ago, but the way Grace was singing it, made it sound like an old jazz ballad. Her voice lilted and dipped, twisting the melody and words into a beautiful new rendition Harry had never heard before. And what was more, was that the two drunk gentlemen had stopped yelling and laughing, but sat in silence, watching and listening to Grace serenade them.
One of the intoxicated gentlemen had stars in his eyes by the end of the song, and his drunken friend was singing along. Harry at the bar had to hand it to Grace that she could sing, and not just that but handle a tipsy patron, but this was just two men.
"Okay, I'll let you try that out tomorrow night, see how you handle a crowd. This isn't karaoke at the bar, this is the VIP lounge. You've gotta have guts and you've gotta be able to handle drunk men all over you." Harry told Grace, "If you can handle our big shots, you got the job." He finished, extending a hand for Grace to take.
Grace smiled, feeling triumphant. "Sounds like a deal." She told him, shaking his hand.
"My advice to you is to keep the high-rollers happy. They're the ones that pay our salary." He shrugged in the direction of the two drunken men Grace had just serenaded, "And don't let these idiots fool you, they may be here all the time, but you should be able to tell who's important around here."
Grace nodded, in response, taking a mental note.
"Make buddy-buddy with the regulars, make 'em feel good, keep them happy. Some of them may ask you to bring a drink over when it's slow. Basically you want to be best friends with the big boys. Learn all about their sorry lives and their problems, it makes you good tips." The bartender said, enunciating the end of his speech by raising his eyebrows in her direction.
"I think I can handle that. I think of myself as a people person," Grace responded, understanding the job was part cocktail waitress, part performer.
"Oh! And one last word of advice," Harry said, leaning in to Grace, and lowering his voice, "All that I just said about buddy-ing up and learning about past lives,"
Grace nodded in response, paying serious attention.
"Forget about that shit if it's a Shelby. Just steer clear of them if you can, hon." Harry advised, looking Grace up and down as if he still didn't truly believe she belonged in that lounge. He turned back to his bar and started cleaning glasses as Grace let his words sink in and furrowed her brows in thought.
…
Early in the morning hours, back in the high-limit blackjack tables sat the oldest Shelby brother, Arthur, who was turning over cards and raking in chips. At his sides sat two very attractive women, both clinging to his side and cheering him on. Arthur just raised his bet, scooting over a stack of chips when two uniformed men came up behind him looking very serious and very stern.
The dealer, ceased mid-shuffle, to take notice of the men, causing Arthur to spin around in his chair and look up at the duo. He'd already had two beers too many, so while trying to turn around, he'd nearly fell out of his chair. One of the officers grabbed a hold of him as the other spoke.
"Mr. Shelby, we're going to need to talk with you."
"I'm busy at the moment," Arthur slurred out, trying to swerve himself back around to his game, and failing in the grip of the man's arm. This irked Arthur who was used to getting his way, so he raised his voice, "I'm not going anywhere with you fuckers now get the hell off me!" He yelled, and started thrashing about, losing the grip on his arm.
The girls on his side shrieked, and tried diving out of the way from the action that ensued, where the men grabbed a hold of Arthur who kicked and screamed his way from his seat all the way out of the casino, cursing both the men and trying his hardest in his drunken state to fight them.
Once they'd gotten in the back of the house, behind closed doors, all hell broke loose and both men started beating the ever living hell out of Arthur until he was incapacitated enough to be bound, gagged, and have a bag thrown over his head.
Arthur was drunk and beaten, but he could still feel himself and his world shifting. He was being carried somewhere. He was dropped and the loud thunk of his body hitting the surface made him realize he was just thrown into the back of a truck. He heard an ignition start and he was drove around for an indeterminate amount of time before he was hoisted up and set down hard in a chair. The bag was ripped from his head, but he remained bound and gagged.
Arthur wasn't sure where the fuck he was, but there was a man in front of him. A different man, who wasn't in uniform but in dress slacks and a button down shirt. He had a mustache and closely cropped hair that was graying at his temples. The man violently removed Arthur's gag, but was beaten to the first words.
"Who the fuck are you?!" Arthur cursed, causing the man to purse his lips. "What the fuck do you think you're doing? Do you know who the fuck I am?" He continued yelling.
"I know exactly who you are, Arthur Shelby Jr." The man responded coolly. "What you should be asking is who am I?" The man told him.
Arthur furrowed his brows in confusion before responding, "I did ask you that, you dumb twat! First words out of my mouth were who the fuck are you?!"
Anger flashed over the man's face and he swung at Arthur and hit him across the jaw, hard. "The answer is that I am not a man to be messed with." he responded and stepped back, pacing back and forth as he spoke.
"I am going to ask you some questions, and we can do this quick and simple or you can be belligerent and stupid if you so desire. But I am going to get my answers either way, the choice for you to make is how I am to get my answer."
Arthur spat blood at the man, dirtying his clean pressed shirt. The man narrowed his eyes and kicked at Arthur, knocking his chair backwards and causing Arthur's head to hit the solid ground, hard.
The mustached man then knelt beside Arthur and pulled him up by the hair on his head and showed him a fist covered with rings. "What have you done with the cocaine?!" He yelled at him.
Which Arthur confusedly shouted back, "What the fuck are you talking about?"
The man let his fist fly, bashing into Arthur's skull, and cutting the flesh of his face with his rings. "We know your filthy family moved the drugs. What are you involved in? What are you doing with it? Where the fuck is it?!" He screamed, beating Arthur into submission.
This continued for quite a while before one of the uniformed men standing guard nearby cleared his throat, innocently, catching the man's attention, who slowed down, and left Arthur in a bloody heap in the floor. Arthur's answers never wavered. He had no earthly clue what the man was talking about or asking his questions for.
The man had enough and stepped away, leaving the uniformed men to dispose of the eldest Shelby boy.
…
A raucous Saturday night crowd filled the Red Lion, and Grace was in the spotlight, singing her heart out. She'd covered everything from classic jazz to soulful 80s rock n roll. And the crowd was eating it up. The men were all pretty drunk, and some of them got a little grabby, but Grace had killed it.
Harry at the bar officially hired Grace only an hour after the start of her shift, when she'd gotten an old regular and high-limit player to order a round for everyone in the lounge in Grace's honor. Sure he had more to drink than usual, and was being more generous than he'd care to be if he were stone-cold sober. But that didn't matter, because he wasn't.
Grace sat with him, during her break and listened to him whine about his bitch wife who couldn't keep house if her life depended on it, and coyly shot down his offer for dinner before hitting the stage again to soothe his broken heart with a soft ballad.
There had been so many players come and go over the course of the night that Grace couldn't keep track of them all. The names and faces were swimming in her head, and she told Harry so at the end of the night when the lounge closed down and she was counting out her tips.
"You'll get them all eventually. Just takes time and familiarity." He told her, cleaning up his bar, and putting back clean glasses in their respective spots.
"I'm sure I will," Grace responded, then chuckled to herself. "Is Mick Clarida usually so candid about his marriage?' she asked, raising her brows curiously.
Harry thought about it a minute before responding, "No, but he's usually not that intoxicated either." He picked up one of the martini glasses he'd just set down and placed it on the bar before him, starting to fix a drink. "You did good tonight. Real good, you handled the drunks perfectly and kept the still sober players happy." he told her and finished shaking up a dirty martini, pouring it into the glass and added an olive garnish. He pushed it down the bar, clearly handing it to Grace.
She sat back and looked at it, trying to decide if he was offering her the drink in celebration of her night, or if he wanted her to pay for it.
"Oh no, I've seen the prices you charge here, I can't afford that. At least not just after one night of work," Grace told him, joking, and pushed the drink back towards Harry.
He smiled and paused, as if he wasn't sure how to respond, but he pushed the drink back her way. "No, it's already been paid for."
The look in his eyes made it clear to Grace that he wasn't insinuating that he'd bought the drink and was offering her a free drink for her work that night, but that someone had asked him to make her a drink at the end of the night. And once Harry knew that she'd understood that he stepped back.
"Take your time, when you're done, wash her up and stack her. I'll see you tomorrow night." Harry told her, leaving her alone in the lounge to wonder who'd bought her drink, and why he hadn't openly told her who.
Grace felt her pulse twitch at the bizarreness of it. She sighed and composed herself, taking the drink and enjoying it. She was alone and it had been already been purchased so no need to waste top shelf vodka, she thought.
…
On the edge of Elko, on over 20 acres of land sat the Shelby Salvage Yard, a sprawling heap of rusting cars, and spare parts that had been in the family for generations. The garage in the back was where most of the action happened, and had churned out several beautifully souped-up racers that had won the Shelby's trophies in the past couple decades. Back further from that was an old modified barn, with chipped red paint that had been turned into the family residence not long after the second world war.
The family matriarch, Polly Gray (nèe Shelby), was at the kitchen table, fussing with a bloodied Arthur shelby, who was cursing and fighting her iodine treatment.
"Fuck! You tryin' to burn off what skin I've got left, Pol?" Arthur cursed, trying to swat away her administering hands.
"If you'd just hold still this will go a hell of a lot quicker," Polly retorted, dryly.
John had entered the kitchen, picking up a bruised apple, and chuckled as he took a seat opposite his eldest brother. "What lawnmower did you lose to?" He teased as he took a bite of his fruit.
"Fuck off." Arthur replied before hissing at the iodine in his wounds.
"If you want to get gangrene, be my guest!" Polly said, standing up, finished with fighting her nephew to tend to his wounds. John laughed and Arthur shot him a look of contempt. "Maybe you should just go to the damn hospital." She told him, throwing down her towel.
"How am I supposed to explain this to the bitches at the fucking hospital?!" Arthur erupted.
"How about you start by explaining to us what the hell happened to you." Polly responded.
Arthur shut up real quick and got up to walk towards the cabinet where he pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels and poured himself a tall glass.
"Yes, by all means, Arthur, just drink it away." Polly said, exasperated.
"I don't even know what the fuck is going on!" I don't know why I was taken hostage and beat up!" Arthur yelled back.
"Taken hostage?" Came the calm and curious voice of Tommy from the doorway. Everyone turned to glance at him.
"Yes, I was taken by two men right in the middle of the goddamn casino. I was in the middle of my game. I didn't even get to cash out my fucking chips!"
Polly rolled her eyes. "God knows that's all that mattered to you,"
"So you were taken by two men, by force, to some other location and they just beat the ever-loving shit out of you?" Tommy asked him, leaning against the door frame.
Arthur looked a little sheepish, but responded with a yes. "Well, there was another man asking me stupid ass questions, I didn't know nothing about." He added, taking a deep swig of his drink.
"What kinds of questions?" Tommy asked.
"I don't know!" Arthur yelled back. "He kept asking me about cocaine." He told his brother.
This piqued Tommy's interest.
"You think this has to do with the DEA agents?" John interjected.
"The DEA thinks we're drug smugglers. No surprise there." Polly commented.
John laughed. "Good thing we've got the cops around here on our side."
"What else did he ask you?" Tommy asked Arthur, who had been content to be finished going over his embarrassing debacle.
"He told me he'd be in touch with us Shelbys. Wanted me to let him know if we heard anything havin' to do with what he'd asked me. The cocaine I guess." Arthur said sheepishly.
"What are we gonna do for them?" John asked, incredulous.
"What COULD we do?" Polly added.
"He wants us to be a mole." Tommy answered, calm as ever. The group all turned to stare at him. "He thinks we know something, clearly. Otherwise he wouldn't have had Arthur taken and interrogated."
"Well that's a sack of horse shit." John replied.
"Fuck yeah! We don't mess with drugs. They've got their stories messed up." Arthur added, feeling unjustly profiled.
"If it's drugs, they're looking for, they should've fucked up Freddie!" John sneered, which received a dark look from Tommy.
"So we have to work for the DEA now?" Polly asked, getting back on track, and pointing her question at Tommy rather than Arthur.
"They are asking us to cooperate. We should see what they want from us." Tommy answered. Polly pursed her lips, none too pleased with his answer.
"Fuck 'em!" John cheered. "We don't have to do jack shit for them."
"Yeah, at this point, they owe us!" Arthur joined in. "Owe me!"
"Oh for fuck's sake." Polly grumbled, knowing Arthur was about to get on a rant about his missing casino winnings.
"Red Lion better give me my money!" He roared, standing up to go storm out and collect his winnings right then and there.
"Whoah, that's gonna have to wait, brother." Tommy told him, putting and firm hand to Arthur's chest, and slowing him down.
John laughed. "Yeah, you look like shit." He told his brother, who deflated and plopped back down in his chair.
"You're money is fine. The Red Lion is good to us, they'll keep your money until you're good and ready to collect it." Tommy told him, patting him on the shoulder. He turned and gave his aunt a look, asking her to try and administer to his brother's wounds again, and she soured.
"Oh Tommy says I should do it, that means all the planets will align and his stubborn ass brother will sit still and let me pour antiseptic on his shredded face…" Polly grumbled quietly to herself, pulling her a chair up to Arthur who immediately tried to shy away.
Tommy smiled to himself, having heard every word his aunt had said under her breath, before he grabbed another bruised apple off the counter and walked out the door.
…
Tommy slammed the hood down on the Camaro he'd been working on in the garage for the past few hours. The sun had set a while back and the rest of the family had already retired to bed for the night. He glanced at his wristwatch and turned out the lights, locked the door, and headed back towards the house.
He quietly entered, walked passed Arthur who was passed out on the couch and headed back towards the kitchen. He found a nearly empty bottle of Jack on the counter with a spilled tumbler next to it. Tommy sighed, just as a loud snore erupted from the living room.
He wiped down the counter and poured the glass full before taking a long drink and poured himself more, draining the bottle completely. He threw out the bottle and retreated upstairs to his room.
Once there he set the glass on his nightstand and pulled off his t-shirt and jeans, before plopping down on the edge of his unkempt bed. He reached into the drawer of his nightstand and took out a prescription bottle, shook out two pills and chased them down with his whiskey.
He laid back in bed and closed his eyes, exhaling. Tommy hated the night, hated sleeping. It hadn't always been that way, back before his deployment, Tommy had been able to sleep like a baby. But ever since he'd come back home, he only slept for an hour or so at a time, and it was never refreshing.
As soon as Tommy felt sleep take him that night, he was in his fatigues, covered in sweat, making the fabric stick to his skin uncomfortably. He bobbed in his seat as the tank he was riding in traveled down the road. Driving beside him was Freddie Thorne, his best friend since childhood, and stationed behind him was his older brother Arthur.
Up ahead in the haze of heat, Tommy could see a figure rising up. He felt his pulse quicken, and he glanced Freddie's way. Their eyes met and he could tell Freddie was just as concerned as Tommy. Arthur leaned forward, seeing the image too.
They all awaited Tommy's orders. The haze of heat cleared and Tommy could see it was a tank that was ahead of them, heading their way. They were silent. Tommy could feel Freddie keep turning to look his way, waiting for him to tell him to stop, but the tank just came closer and closer.
It was silent. Tommy could only hear the breathing of those around him, and his heartbeat, thumping, pounding faster and faster. He could feel a lump growing in his throat and he clenched his jaw, trying to keep it from shaking.
The tank was only a few yards ahead and Tommy saw the main gun slowly move to position itself, locking in on Tommy's vehicle. He felt his heart race, and salt fill his mouth. He opened his mouth to shout orders, and shot up in his bed, clinging to his bed sheets, drenched in sweat, and panting as if he's run an olympic race.
Tommy tried to catch his breath after waking up from his recurring nightmare, blinking in the darkness, his eyes adjusting. He could see the moonlight pour through his curtains, and the faint glow from his bedside clock. He checked the time and threw the covers off of himself.
"Forty-five minutes this time," He said to himself, feeling angry and tired. He got up and walked to the window, looking down at the junkyard in the distance. He clenched his jaw, and thought of Arthur passed out on the couch downstairs, drunk off whiskey.
Tommy envied his brother at night. The idea of drinking until you passed out sounded refreshing, but Tommy was afraid he might become stuck in his nightmares. That's why he never tried Freddie's way of coping.
Tommy had calmed himself down, and trudged back to his bed, laying back down. He didn't want to go back to the place he'd just been, so he tried thinking about something else. So he let his mind wander.
…
Two blocks off the main drag, was a small, historic building, that had once been a general store. Now it had been converted into an antique shop, with furniture, glass, and art stacked up on top of each other, fighting for space to be seen.
It was early Monday morning, and Grace had just walked inside of the store, greeted by the ding of an electric bell from the door's opening. The shop owner nodded in her direction before going back to her task of pricing items.
Grace perused the china and knick-knacks, taking a turn into the back room where large paintings were stacked along the floor. There was a man there, flipping through the selection. The same man that had interrogated Arthur just a few days previous.
Grace cautiously approached him, and quietly cleared her throat. The man, a Chester Campbell, turned to Grace and looked her over.
"I trust you've found accommodations and a suitable job?" He asked her.
"Yes, I've taken a job in the Red Lion." She answered, as if she were giving a report.
"Great, the lowest of the low frequent that place. It's a perfect spot." Campbell replied. His face showed concern though. "I apologize you have to deal with such despicable characters. I know your father would be sad to see it, but I know you're a strong enough woman to withstand the temptations of this town." He added, pride and sincere, warm affection lacing his voice.
"I will be fine." Grace told him, firmly.
"Yes, I know you will be." Campbell told her. "I just hope you understand I can't step in to save you." He warned her.
"I'm aware. I knew that when I accepted the position." She replied.
"I just hate to think of anything happening to you. Your father was a great man. I owe-"
Grace cut him off, "No, I will be fine. I know how to handle myself. My father taught me how to protect myself."
Campbell smiled and chuckled to himself. "I know that, Grace. It's just my nature, I guess to be protective of you. Especially since you're my partner now."
"I can't really be your partner if we don't even work together." Grace retorted.
"Not in physical proximity, of course. But I just meant-"
Grace cut him off again, "I know what you meant," She said kindly.
Campbell straightened up, resuming his seriousness. "Of course…" He turned back to the paintings, momentarily, before pausing and resuming his conversation. "Your first objective is to meet the Shelbys. I want you to find out all you can about them." He told her, then nodded his head to let her know that was all.
Grace held her head high. "Yes, of course. Consider it done."
…
In the dead of night, Tommy had called Charlie and Curly to a secret meeting. The tarped car was still in his garage, and Tommy wanted it out. Charlie and Curly had been tasked with quickly stripping the side panels off and prepping them for a paint job.
"Just match it as close as you can." Tommy told them, loading the cocaine bags that had been previously concealed with the side panels into the trunk before sitting down in the driver's seat and starting up the engine.
"Won't we need the car here to match it?" Curly asked, seeing that Tommy was about to take off.
"I haven't finished the paint on my own Camaro, reference that." Tommy calmly instructed, and carefully maneuvered the stolen Camaro out of the garage and left Charlie and Curly to their work.
He stuck to the western edge of the yard as he drove out, keeping the headlights off. Thankfully for him, driving by the sheer light of the moon was easy that night, since there wasn't a cloud in the sky, and it was almost a full moon. He let his arm relaxedly hang out the window as he traveled down the rural road and passed over a barren desert landscape into the middle of nowhere.
After forty-five minutes of driving Tommy slowed down, reaching his destination. He left the car in it's hiding spot, taking a handkerchief out of his pocket and rubbing down both the steering wheel and gear shifter.
He slammed the car door and wiped it down too. He circled the back of the car and wiped off the trunk for good measure and stuffed his handkerchief back into his rear pocket. Tommy then checked the time on his watch before starting to walk back in the direction of home.
I'm in love with Cillian Murphy you guys. If you've never watched the show (although I don't know why you'd be reading this if you haven't) you NEED to. It's a GREAT show. It's got badass guys in suits looking fine as hell. Not going to lie, the only reason I started watching it in the first place is because I saw pictures of Cillian in it and fell in love with him.
Emotions aside, I've been working on this for a while. It's one of my stories I've got the whole plot mapped out, so if I lag on it it's just my life getting busy and my creative funks getting in the way. I love the story though, and when I'm writing I'm listening to lots of classic rock so if you're interested I can list some of the songs I listen to during the chapters.
This is also going to be a rather short story with only going to be six chapters, but they're long chapters (as far as my writing goes anyway). So stick around and we'll see how this goes.
As always, thanks for reading and reviews always brighten my day!