Giuseppi Yakavetta's very public execution was carried out on the overcast morning of July 23, 1998. Immediately following the assassination, the Three made their way to New York City. Da left immediately upon arrival to see if he could reestablish contact with some of his arms dealers and informants. Whichever ones were not dead, in prison or retired. He didn't know when he'd be back.
That left the two brothers to sweat out the dog days of summer in a fleabag motel in Brooklyn. The heat and the confinement took a toll on the boys. The normally close brothers were constantly at each other's throats for slights both real and imagined.
Near the end of September Agent Smecker, with whom they had been in almost constant contact with since they went underground, informed them that he was in the process of formulating a plan that would allow them to return home.
Paul was setting up an off book, black-op FBI safe house in South Boston. Smecker was putting his ass way over the line when he set up the house for three "undercover informants."
It seems as if the Three were needed in Boston. With the untimely demise of Poppa Joe, the Italians were finding themselves in a constant state of turmoil. The line of succession was blurred due to the fact that not only were both of Yakavetta's Capos killed in his own house on the night of April 13th 1998, but also the Italians were becoming both lazy and complacent. With the Russians out of the picture, the Boston underworld was ripe for the taking. Every penny-ante wannabe mafioso was trying to get a piece of the action. There were even rumors of the Irish gangs trying to make a go of it and stake out a larger chunk of territory.
Finalizing the plan took a while, but on the 30th day of November, the MacManus family moved into the small row house on Colebrook Street. The boys were more than a little surprised when the old man meandered up the front walk not fifteen minutes after Smecker dropped them off.
The house was shabbily appointed, but it was a marked improvement from the illegal squatters loft the boys had called home for the better part of four years. There were three decent sized bedrooms, a full and a half bathroom, an outdated kitchen with an attached dining room and a rather spacious living room.
The living room was decorated in true 70's splendor. The olive green, mustard yellow and orange color scheme was represented in all it's glory by both the thick shag carpet and the peeling wallpaper on the one wall that was not covered in cheap simulated wood paneling.
The room contained two beat up La-Z-Boy recliners, a lumpy sofa, a large wooden coffee table, and a few rickety TV trays that served double duty as end tables. The real saving grace, to the boy's overwhelming delight, was the incongruously placed flat screen TV that graced the wall above the fireplace. Smecker bought it for them as a housewarming gift.
After a quick trip down the street to the local package store for some provisions, namely Guinness and a bottle or two of Powers, the MacManus men settled in.
Da and Connor made themselves comfortable in the recliners. With their feet kicked up, ashtrays resting on the cheap tables at their sides, a cold Guinness in their hands, they settled in for their first night in their new home.
Murphy, seeing as how he lost his chance to stake a claim to one of the La-Z-Boys, decided to take a shower. After a full twenty minutes of luxuriating under a spray of hot water, enclosed by a shower door, no ass hanging out to get cold in the outside air, Murph thought he'd died and went to heaven.
When he was finally done, Murphy sauntered into the living room with his half buttoned 501's riding low on his narrow hips, gray t-shirt laying across his left shoulder, right hand towel drying his dark hair.
"What's on the telly?" he asked contentedly, tossing the damp towel to the ground alongside the couch.
"Death Wish II! I fuckin' love this place!" Connor happily exclaimed.
"Fuckin' Charlie Bronson. Ya gotta be shittin' me." Murph laughed good naturedly as he turned towards the kitchen to get himself a beer. "Anyone up? I'm buying."
"Jaysus Christ boyo, there is more ink on yer skin than in the Trinity College Library!" Da proclaimed as he got caught a good glimpse of his son's back.
"What? Ya got something against tattoos Da?" Murph called over his shoulder as he grabbed his beer out of the refrigerator. He walked back into the living room, put his Guinness down on the table and pulled a crumpled pack of Marlboro Lights out of the right front pocket of his jeans.
"Thanks fer the beer Murph." said Connor sarcastically.
"Ye didn't ask fer one ye asshat." Murph tossed back, popping open his Guinness and taking a sip.
"I don't have anything against tattoos lad. I got one right fuckin' here!" Da answered Murph while waving his right fist in the air.
"But it's a fuckin' butterfly Da!" scoffed Connor as he reluctantly got up to fetch his own beer.
"Enough with yer cheek!" Da said with a laugh. "Oft times something that is verra simple, can in truth be verra complicated. Such is the case with me wee butterfly here."
"So there is a story behind yer pretty, wee butterfly then?" Conn asked as he flopped back into his recliner.
"It better be a bloody fuckin' good one, yeah?" mumbled Murphy as he sat down on the couch, worrying his right thumbnail with his teeth in between sips of beer.
"Hold yer whist lad. I will tell ye the tale o'my wee butterfly and then you can tell yer Da why ye have the name o'a man o'er yer heart, Nancy boy." Da gestured to the word 'NORMAN' written in script and embellished with curls and flourishes that sat on Murphy's broad pale chest.
Connor burst out laughing and Murphy's high cheekbones burned with a reddener as he pulled his well-worn t-shirt over his head.
"Keep at it Conn and I'll knock ye a clatter!"
"Try it, Nancy boy." drawled Connor between guffaws.
Murph sprang from the couch and clocked Connor upside the head. Both men fell to the floor, swinging and swearing in a variety of languages.
Da's eyes rolled upwards and he got up with a sigh. 'Christ, what me poor Annie must have dealt with over the years, raising these two on her own.'
"Lads, lads, enough!" Da said as he bent to pull them apart. "Murph, tis obvious yer no Nancy boy. I only said it in jest. Yer just lucky ye have a jaw like a mule or ye'd be too pretty to piss!"
That sent Conn to laughing again while Murphy shot him a triumphant look.
"I always was the better looking one." A winded Murph proclaimed as he dropped to the sofa, grabbed his beer and took a swig.
"I see yer Ma kept her promise and made sure ye learned yer languages. I ken I heard the Gaelic, Italian and German in that colorful mix." Da observed, changing the subject.
"We also know Spanish, Russian and o'course English. Ma was adamant we pay attention in school." Connor informed Da.
"Smattering of Portuguese and Polish as well." added Murphy, talking around the cigarette dangling from his lips.
"My Annie did right by our boys, she did." Da said nodding. "An' that leads me back round ta the tale of my wee butterfly."
The boys were all ears as they listened to Da tell his story.
"A lot o' evil, unsettlin' things had been happenin' round the time I left ye and yer Ma. Sibeal and I were doin' the Lord's work for about ah…eleven years round then." Da paused, staring into space with a contemplative look on his face.
"Well, when Sibeal lost his Meggie, he lost his mind for a while. It intensified my calling, but in Sibeal, well, he lost his. His fervor left when Meggie was taken from him"
"Meggie? We never heard of any Meggie before." stated Connor, dumbfounded.
"I'm sure ye didn't. He refuses to speak about it. Don't think he ever has, not even then. Can't get past the pain and can't bear to relive it in the retellin' o' it." Da said quietly with a sad shake of his head.
"Well, what happened?" inquired a curious Murphy.
"That's a story for another day. I'll be tellin' ye the tale, when the time is right." The eldest MacManus said enigmatically.
"Anyway," Da continued, "on the mornin' I left yer Ma, she was in the boughs. She was tryin' to be strong, but underneath it all, she was strugglin'. I told her to have a care for ye boys. Told both of ye ta mind yer ma, and do me proud. I made her promise to tell ye of our ways, the MacManus ways, when the time was right. Ye needed to be educated. Ye needed ta know yer heritage, needed to know the prayer. What ye come from, where ye were headed. She finally broke down when I told her I loved her…"
"Lass, ye know I love ye, for always. Ye and the lads mean more'n anything to me. What I do will keep ye safe. Make the world a better place to bring up our lads."
"Can't ye let it rest? Let it rest like Sibeal has done?" Annie asks as she takes the whistling teakettle off the cooker.
"I can't do that anymore'n I can change the color o' the sky. The fire burns in me, lass. It burns in me for Sibeal and Meggie and fer poor wee Kitty. It needs be done Annie. I have to see it through."
"Will we ever see ye again?"
"Lass, I don't know the answer to that. I have ta hope I will see yer bonnie face again. See my laddies grown into men. As to where me path takes me, I don't know." He trails off.
"C'mon now, give me a smile lass, a real one, ta carry with me for all times."
Annie smiles tremulously as she grasps his hand. She presses a folded piece of paper into his palm and closes his fingers around it.
"Take this with ye. Remark on it now and then and think of us, here, waiting for ye. I love ye Fergus."
"And I ye, Annie." He holds the hand holding the paper to his heart.
"Goodbye fer now Annie." He gently cups her tearstained cheek with his free hand and draws her lips to his in a fierce kiss. With one last deep look into her eyes, he bends to pick up his rucksack, opens the door and steps out into the winter chill.
Fergus hears her wracking sobs as the door quietly closes.
Da was quiet for a while, staring off into the night outside the window.
"What did the paper say Da?" Connor quietly asked, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.
"What the fuck does it have to do with the butterfly on yer hand?" an exasperated Murphy asked, earning him a black look from his twin.
Da drew his eyes back to his lads. The sadness in them was bone deep.
"I fair wore out the paper from the opening and refolding, but the words were etched on me mind long before the paper was gone. It was an old Irish blessing. It said,
May the wings o' the butterfly kiss the sun,
and find your shoulder to light on.
To bring you luck, happiness and riches,
today, tomorrow and beyond.
Well, one fine day in New York City, in the middle o' Times Square, I saw a beautiful blue butterfly flutterin' by on a spring breeze. It was like a sign. When do ye see a fuckin' butterfly in New York City? I found the nearest tattoo parlor and had them make me this." He stopped and rubbed the thumb of his left hand over the delicate blue butterfly on top of his right fist.
"Every time I looked at it, I thought about yer Ma, ye two, of home." Da finished quietly.
They were all silent, each lost in their own memories.
"That's good stuff Da." stated Murph as he rubbed the back of his right hand across his lips.
"We always wondered if ye had a care for us, you know, after ye left." Connor stated, nodding at Murphy.
Murphy nodded too. "Ma missed ye most of all. She still does, for all she'll deny it."
"That's me Annie, loyal to the core." Da said with pride. "How I miss that woman!"
"Now, tell me about yer Norman, lad." He jabbed the hand holding his cigar towards his dark haired son. "And all the other ones ye both have."
Connor raised his left hand to absently rub the left side of his neck.
"Well, the first ones we got were these." He said gesturing to the Blessed Virgin.
"Fuckin' Darragh Flannery." Murph spit out as he angrily swept his pack of cigarettes up off the scarred top of the coffee table.
"As ye can see Da, the piece is not exactly the most well done ye've ever seen." Connor continued, laughing.
"It's a ball of shite Connor!" exclaimed Murphy agitatedly as he slapped Connor's arm.
"Dry yer arse Murph! It's been almost twelve years." Connor bit off with a harsh look that threatened to commence another round of fighting.
"Anyway, Murph here had the grand idea of getting tattoos after we made our confirmations. Something to honor our catholic heritage and…"
"It would have been a fuckin' proper tribute if not for fuckin' Darragh Flannery!" Murphy interrupted again.
"Ya see, Connor here was doin' a line with Janet Flannery. Janet says to us, 'Me brother Darragh is a fine artist and he'll do right by ye.'" Murph finishes, adopting a high-pitched girls voice.
"Fuckin' tosser," he continued in his own soft tones. "he could barely write his own fuckin' name, much less call himself a tattoo artist for Christ's fuckin' sake!" He then leaned back into the couch and lit himself a cigarette.
"Around two years later, a big bloke up from Wicklow mangled Darragh's drawing hand after he bollixed up the bloke's tattoo of his girl's name. Said Doreen instead of Maureen or some shite. Had to find himself a new line of work, did Darragh." laughed Connor, taking a hearty swallow of Guinness.
"Was Darragh's father Liam Flannery, by any chance?" questioned Da.
"Aye, I think yer right Da." answered Murphy thoughtfully, as he finished off his beer.
"Well, Liam was a right can o'piss in his day so tis obvious the apple don't fall too far from the tree." Da chuckled.
"And that's the true story of how we came by these gacky Blessed Virgins." Murphy sighed, running his fingers through his already mussed hair. "I'd still like to have a go at him."
"Oh, macho Murph, yeah." Connor laughed as he got up to empty the overflowing ashtrays and grab another round of beers.
"Slainte." He says as he opens his bottle and takes a drink.
"Slainte." Murphy and Da repeat as they do the same.
"For the next, these crosses, we went into Dublin proper." Connor began; gesturing to the Celtic crosses adorning their forearms.
"Twas right after Ma told us what our MacManus heritage really meant. We thought a cross would nicely symbolize our calling." Murphy said seriously. "We were what, seventeen then, Conn?"
"Aye, seventeen years old. Colin Shaughnessy did these and a fuckin' right fine job as well." Connor stated, admiring the colorful artwork on his left forearm.
"We went back to him when we wanted to add the Veritas and Aequitas." Murph said, absently scratching his chest.
"Why are the crosses and words on opposite arms?" Da asked as he slowly climbed out of the beat up brown recliner in order to stretch his limbs. He then moved to lean against the counter of the snack bar that connected the kitchen and the living room.
"Well, I'm lefty, and Murphs a right. Figured when the time came, they should be on the hands that would wield our guns." Connor replied matter-of-factly.
"Truth and Justice, Da." added Murphy with a firm nod of his head.
"A message for those who sin." agreed Connor as he rubbed the palm of his hand over his forehead and into his sandy blond hair, making it stand up even more haphazardly than before.
"Now, Murphy here was never satisfied with the tattoos he had. Always wanted more. To preface the story of Murph's extra artwork, we have the tale of the Irish wolfhound."
"We were around nine or so when Murph found this puppy lying in an alley in the village. Bag o'bones and matted gray fur was all it really was. It was covered in dried blood and could barely walk. Someone beat it to shite and left it to die. Well our Murphy here, he's always had a soft spot for the beasties." Connor begins to tell the tale with a smile in his voice.
At this point, Murphy nods and releases the smoke he was holding. He was sitting relaxedly on the sofa with his left arm lying across its back, right hand holding his cigarette and beating a frenetic tattoo against his jean clad thigh.
"He scooped the puppy up and brought him home to Ma." Connor paused to hit his cigarette, laughing.
"Well, Ma was into the Arthur's and well on her way to being buckled, so she starts carrying on about an extra mouth ta feed, bloody shirts, dog shite in the cassie. On and on she goes blathering until Murph draws himself up, a right serious little man, and says, 'He'll be my responsibility Ma. I'll care for him,' or some shite."
"Ma went all quiet all of a sudden and just stared at me." Murph said, smiling fondly at the memory. He picked the lighter off the table and lit another cigarette from his rapidly dwindling supply. He blew a smoke ring and stubbed out the still burning butt in the ashtray.
"She keeps staring at me for what seemed like forever and she finally says, 'Ye remind me just of yer Da right now. Charming bastard always had a way about him.' and she shook her head. 'I could never say no ta him either when he had his mind set.'"
"She grabbed her handbag off the kitchen table and says, 'But it's going to be yer responsibility. I better not find one turd in the backyard or he's out. I'm for the Anvil.'"
"So she up and left and the dog was Murph's forever more." chortled Connor. "Imagine Ma's surprise when he grew ta the size of a small bear."
"Aye, Irish wolfhound he was. A better dog no man has ever had." Murphy said silently, misty blue eyes cast downward.
"Two days before we headed to Dublin for our new tattoos, the good lad went to sleep and never woke ta see the next day." Conn said softly with a commiserating look to his brother.
"We buried him in the cassie that mornin'." added Murph as he rubbed the heels of his palms over his eyes.
"Aww, don't ye be fuckin' cryin' now Murph." shot Connor as he leaned forward to swat at Murph's knee affectionately.
"Fuck you, Connor!" spat Murphy. "He was a good fuckin' dog."
Da ambled over to Murph and tousled his hair. "Ye're a good lad, Murphy."
Da walked into the kitchen to grab another round of Guinness from the refrigerator. He paused to pick up a bottle of Powers sitting on the counter. He passed out the beer and nudged Murphy's hand with the whiskey bottle. "Have a drink lad. Remember him well."
"Aye." said Murph as he took a pull strait from the bottle. "He was a fine dog."
"Enough of all this maudlin shite. There's a story that needs tellin'." Connor said with a quick look around to make sure his audience was paying attention.
"So, a group of us lads were headed to Dublin to do a wee bit of carousing and for Murph and I to get our new tattoos. Now the finger is a tough spot to get any work done on. God, the I over me knuckle hurt like a bitch. I can wince just thinking about it."
"Fuckin' pussy." Murph interjected.
"Now, I wasn't the one just fuckin' crying over my dog that's been dead fer ten bloody years." Connor said heatedly. "There's no need to be disparagin' me manhood. I am the one that hooked us up with those American birds that night if you recall."
"Ok, Ok!" Murph conceded, laughing. "But just remember, you were the only one to hook up with the clap that night as well!"
"Ya got me there Murph." Connor shifted in his seat irritably. "Colin did another fine bit o'work on these." Conn said proudly as he wagged his finger in the air, "After we were through getting our work done, the birds we met up with at the tattoo parlor were wanting an escort to McDaid's. Fionn, Kevin and I went with them. Murphy stayed behind and said he'd meet up with us when he was done. About two hours later, Murph strolls in with that great monstrosity on his back and the pup's name on his scrawny chest."
"Scrawny me arse, Connor!" exclaimed Murph as he flexed his pec muscles.
"Honestly Murph, twas a mite scrawnier when ye were seventeen." Connor replied dryly.
"So the pup was yer Norman?" Da asked with obvious relief lacing his voice.
"Aye." agreed Murphy. He raised the whiskey bottle to his lips once more. "To Norman. A fuckin' damn fine dog."
"To Norman." repeated both Da and Connor and they in turn drank from their Guinness.
"What ever possessed ye ta get that great bit o'work on yer back done then?" questioned Da.
Murphy took a deep breath and another pull from the bottle of Powers.
"The piece is of the Archangels Michael and Lucifer doing battle. As ye know, Michael defeated Lucifer and banished him from Heaven. Lucifer thought too highly of himself and sought to supplant God. He was punished powerfully for his audacity."
Murph fell silent and lit a cigarette. After a couple of drags, he began again.
"When Ma told us of our calling, I had trouble reconcilin' myself to the path that was chosen for me. For us." Murphy said, giving Connor a meaningful look.
"After all, who were we to go against God's commandments? Thou shalt not kill. It was drummed into our heads since we were wee lads. Were we to play God, deciding who should live or who should die? Was what we were going to do an affront to God's teachings? How were we not like Lucifer? Back and forth these questions knocked around inside me head. I thought I would go fuckin' crazy from it. But then one night it came to me. Lucifer acted of his own free will to go against God. In doing our work for Him, we would be going against his commandments, yes, but with His blessing and sanction. It's not just black and white, but many shades of gray."
Murph looked up and into the intent eyes of both his father and brother. They both waited patiently for him to finish his tale. Both knowing, intimately, the turmoil that Murph was vocalizing.
"I got the tattoo as a reminder that even though our calling is right and just, there is a fine line that we straddle that we must never cross, lest we face the wrath of God and all his Archangels. If ever we start working for ourselves and not for Him, then all is lost." Murphy finished and fished his rosary out from underneath his t-shirt. He kissed the cross reverently.
They were all silent for quite some time, myriad thoughts racing through each man's mind.
Finally, Connor spoke into the still night. "How far are we going to take this, Da?"
Da took a puff on his cigar and leaned forward, leonine head illuminated by the side table lamp.
"The question is not, 'How far?' The question is, 'Do you possess the constitution, the depth of faith, to go as far as is needed?'"
Remember, this is only my second story, I'd love to have you drop me a review and let me know what ya think!