This is the beginning of what I hope will be a long and prosperous story. It's based on the show The Black Donnellys which aired on NBC until it's cancellation this spring. But you can buy the entire season on Itunes, and if you're looking for something good to watch this summer, I highly recommend that you do so. You can get all thirteen episodes for like twenty-five dollars or something like that. It's really not a bad deal; after all, we're talking about the greatest TV show I've ever seen.
Anyway, the bold text that will begin each chapter is written from the direct POV of Joey Ice Cream. This will never change. Also, I will always warn you if there is going to be something a) graphic or b) gory. The language . . . you're on your own. The main characters are a bunch of young men in the slums of New York City. How do you think they're going to talk? And anyway, it's not that bad.
I can't really think of anything else to tell you. Read, review, be honest with me because that's what I appreciate most. Also keep in mind that I'm the kind of person who, after recieving a well-thought review, will most likely check out the stories that the reviewer is pushing and reciprocate. I believe in healthy exchanges.
This story takes place right after episode thirteen, Easy Is the Way.
--Dayna
"Death is always and under all circumtances a tragedy,
for if it is not, then it means that life itself has become one."
I try not to let myself think about how close we all came to dying that night. Actually, I try not to let myself think of that night at all. Or the next day. Or the next week. In fact, I do my best to block out every moment of my life in between the day of Dokey's beating, and Helen Donnellys funeral.
But sometimes, when I'm by myself late at night, I remember anyway. If it's colder than hell, like on the night she was shot, and I'm laying there in the dark, it comes back to me. I mean, I don't just hear the gunshots. I feel their sound in my bones. Bullets and breaking glass and the most pitiful crying, the awful smell of sulfur mixed with blood, everyone knocking into everyone else as we raced for the hospital . . . it comes back to me and breaks my heart all over again.
They held her wake at the Fire Cracker, which was only right. The bar exceeded capacity for four hours as everyone from the neighborhood came through, even guys who'd been behind Dokey before. No one could support what he'd done to the Donnellys. It was simply understood that in the bloody business of men, there were rules and Dokey had broken them. If he had killed any of the four Donnelly brothers it would have been fine. They were all fair game, even Sean who was only eighteen. But Helen was a civilian, an innocent bystander, and a woman.
Dokey also died that night. Kevin Donnelly finally got lucky and landed a bullet in Dokey's chest. But no one planned a funeral for Dokey, or threw a wake in their bar. In the end he had no friends, no honor, and no respect in the neighborhood. He had died, and his following and power died with him.
And so did Tommy's secret. You remember how Tommy admitted to killing Huey just before it all went down? Well Dokey never got the chance to pass on that information. Though it had always been assumed that the Donnellys were involved in those early slayings, there was still no tangible evidence to implicate them, and no surviving witnesses to Tommy's confession.
And though Kevin was arrested for shooting Dokey, it was quickly established that he'd been acting in self-defense when he and his whole family were under fire. They let him go in time for the wake.
Afterwards . . . well the first few weeks of afterwards are kind of blur for me. Don't get me wrong. Plenty happened. But it all felt surreal . . .
Tommy took his time on the way to Cottero's. Meeting with Nicky was not something he was particularly looking forward to. All Tommy wanted to do was re-enroll in art school, drink beers with his brothers at the Fire Cracker, and pursue Jenny Reilly. He wanted to feel like he was twenty-two again, which was something he hadn't experienced since before he'd killed Sal Minetta and Huey Farrell.
But per usual, Tommy had no real choice. He didn't want to step up and assume charge of the neighborhood. He wanted to grieve his mother and be a normal person. But he knew that if he didn't meet with Nicky, some other chump would. Maybe one of Dokey's guys, some greedy, violent bastard from the laborer's hall. If he didn't take responsibility, his brothers, and Jenny, and the neighborhood he both loved and hated were in danger of being taken over by people who didn't have their best interest at heart. People who didn't care about keeping the peace, or making things fair.
Meeting with Nicky was essential because deep down, Tommy knew that he never would be able to get away. There would be no leaving. It was for the best if he at least had control over the place where he was trapped.
Nicky had first approached Tommy about arranging a treaty the night his mother was shot. Tommy hadn't understood it until later, but Cottero was in the ER when they got there, having his stomach pumped. While Helen was in operating, he saw Nicky in one of the private rooms. Nicky saw him too, and beckoned him in.
Even then Tommy recognized that he had no choice. He saw his future that night, stretched out before him, and he understood that if he was going to have any of the security he wanted out of life, he had to have a good relationship with Nicky. His mother had been shot; she was in operation, just a few minutes away from dying. Tommy's face was wet with tears and his shirt soaked with blood. But Nicky Cottero had to be dealt with.
"Tommy," Nicky nodded at him from the bed, eyeing the blood splotched shirt. "Looks like you've had some trouble. You and Dokey had it out, right?"
"Yeah,"
"And since you're standing here, I can assume he's dead, right?"
"Yeah," Tommy wiped his face with his sleeve, smearing blood across his forehead, making him looks fierce. Crazy. "Kevin shot him. But not before Dokey got our mom."
"My God," Sincere shock registered on Nicky's cold face. "She gonna make it?"
It was at that point that Tommy knew. No one had told him that Helen's heart had stopped, but he felt it in his own chest, certainly. "No," he answered. "She died."
Nicky shook his head. "I'm truly sorry for you and your brothers." He said.
"Thanks," Tommy turned to leave.
"Tommy," Nicky called after him. Tommy turned. "Listen," Nicky continued. "You should take some time to mourn. Take a few weeks to grieve your mother. But Aloe died of a heart attack this afternoon, which leaves me sort of in charge of things, and I think the two of us should talk. Whenever you're ready."
Tommy gave him the smallest of nods and left.
He didn't see Nicky Cottero again until Helen's wake.
Nicky was the only Italian who'd ever had the balls to turn out for an Irish wake. He looked completely out of place in the Fire Cracker, his nice leather coat and slick hair contrasting sharply with the shabby interior and all of the bedraggled and crying Irish..But if he noticed how out of his element he was, he didn't show it. He walked confidently through the crowd to where Tommy was standing with a beer in his hand. He ignored all of the stares, and the enraged expression on Jimmy Donnelly's face.
Tommy put his beer down on the counter in time to accept Nicky's "deepest condolences," and a firm hand shake. Then he watched as Nicky offered the same to each of his brothers, even Shawn, whom he'd previously beaten almost to death, and even Jimmy, and gave Jenny a curt smile before leaving.
Cottero did not talk about business at all. But Tommy knew that the Italians were full of symbolism. He knew that everything they did or said, and every gesture that they made meant something. Nicky showing up at Tommy's ma's wake meant respect. The fact that he'd addressed Tommy first meant even more respect. But also it was a reminder; the two of them had business to take care of.
So a week later, Tommy set out to take care of it. He walked to Nicky's place, Cottero's. He did not drag his feet or hesitate before the door. He went in and sat down in the booth where Nicky was waiting.
Nicky would never admit it, but he liked this Donnelly kid. Generally he considered the Irish to be worthless, ambitionless and overemotional but something in the way that Tommy carried himself pleased Nicky. Tommy clearly had confidence and brains beyond his years, and Nicky enjoyed it. He enjoyed the way Tommy cooly managed his affairs. He enjoyed the fervor with which Tommy tried to protect his family. He enjoyed the fact that Tommy did not wait to be asked before sitting down across from him in the booth.
Nicky also felt a bizarre amount of pity for Tommy. The whole affair with the mother getting shot was disgusting. It never should have happened. In the Italian world, it wouldn't have happened. It was simply unheard of. And it was that blatantly Irish lack of code and principles that appalled Nicky in the first place, and made him hate them. He could tell though that Tommy was a man of character, one who understood the rules, and so he felt sorry that the kid's mother had gotten caught in the crossfire. It was unfair.
"I've been thinking about what I want," Tommy said, looking Nicky in the eye.
"Yeah?" Nicky smiled coldly. "Me too."
"And when it comes down to it," Tommy continued. "I'm pretty sure that you and I want the same things out of this deal."
"Really?"
"Of course," Tommy nodded. "Peace and money,"
A real smile took Nicky's face and he couldn't suppress a laugh. "Good, Tommy. Then we agree."
Jenny had been visiting the brothers' apartment every night since their mom passed. She brought them food, much more than they could ever eat, and she did their laundry. But baking casseroles and folding their socks and boxers was not the important part of what she did over there. What she did was keep Tommy grounded which in turn made the other three feel more calm.
She would sit in the shabby green armchair with a basket of clean clothes between her feet, and she would fold while they watched the evening news together. Usually Tommy would drink a beer and slowly unwind under the influence of the alcohol and her presence. They didn't talk. They just sat together. Sometimes Shawn would come in and sit down next to her, occasionally pulling something from the basket to fold. Sometimes Kevin would curl up on the unoccupied half of the couch and state blankly at the television. Jimmy stayed at the Fire Cracker most of the time, practicing his own methods of mourning. But for Tommy, it seemed to help just having her around.
Still, though, she worried about him. He was quiet to begin with but since the wake he'd hardly said ten words to her. She made small talk during the commercial breaks and occasionally commented on the news stories, but he was unresponsive. He was usually unreadable; she'd never been able to tell what kind of mood he was in. But now she could almost detect a sort of brooding going on beneath the surface.
Finally, after almost three weeks of their routine, she asked him about it. They were alone in the apartment and it was raining outside, giving background to their conversation. Tommy had dark circles under his eyes and Jenny knew he had skipped another night of sleep.
"What do you mean, how am I?" He asked. "How am I supposed to be?"
"Well," Jenny brought the t-shirt she was holding to her face, touching the cotton to her cheeks and smelling the detergent. She tried to consider her words carefully. "When my mom died, I talked to people about it. Talked to my aunts. Talked to my dad a lot. I know this is different; it wasn't an illness or anything normal, Tommy, but you've got to be having a lot of the same feelings. Do you want to tell me about them?"
"Jenny," Tommy leaned forward, the couch springs creaking beneath him. "Jenny, I don't want to tell you about anything. Or explain how I feel. I don't want you to keep cooking for us or doing our laundry or coming over here every night to visit like you'd visit some invalid in a nursing home or a patient in a ward. I don't want your pity. I don't want any of it."
Jenny jumped in the chair. It wouldn't have hurt worse if he'd hauled off and hit her. "Fine," she tossed the t-shirt down and stood up. "Fine then, Tommy. Have it your way. But before I go, and leave you alone in this dark, dirty apartment, why don't you tell me what you do want so that it's not some big mystery anymore. Can you do that Tommy? Try explaining it to me so that I don't always have to guess? So I don't do the wrong thing and make you angry?"
He stared at her, biting his bottom lip. Finally he said, "I wanna take you back to my room now, Jenny."
"What?"
"To my room. To my bed. I wanna lay down with you. Kiss your forehead. Your neck. Touch your hair, you ears, your breasts. I want you to kiss me back and tell me you love me. Tell me that I haven't wasted my whole life loving you,"
"Tommy—,"
"Anyway," He stood up. "That's what I want. It's what I've always wanted."
And he did go back to his room, leaving her alone and feeling foolish. She sat back down in the arm chair and folded her hands in her lap and started to cry because secretly she had always hoped he would say that, and now that he had she didn't know what came next.
Fifteen minutes later she figured it out, and found Tommy in his bed, laying on his back with his arms folded over his chest. She crawled in next to him and took his hands, placing them in her hair. And then he kissed her. And she kissed him back. And they lay together for hours, touching occasionally but mostly just radiating love.
As the sun was rising the next morning, Jenny told him what she'd done to Samson.
Kevin and Shawn didn't get home until three in the morning and when they got there, they saw the abandoned basket of laundry, and the door to Jimmy and Tommy's room closed, so they left again. They were happy for them. Jenny and Tommy had been waiting for each other for a long time. But neither Kevin or Shawn wanted to listen, if what they thought was happening really was. It was a side of Tommy they didn't care to know about.
They began walking back to the Fire Cracker, getting soaked along the way. But Kevin was smiling as he walked. He was happier than he'd been since his ma had died, and he realized it was because of Tommy. If Tommy could find joy and contentment after everything that had happened to them, then any of them could. It was possible. It gave Kevin hope. Suddenly the future wasn't a black hole of drunken evenings at the Fire Cracker, nights spent solely with Shawn. Now he could envision other, better things. A job somewhere. Jimmy getting clean. Maybe Jenny and Tommy would get married. There might be nieces and nephews. Maybe Kevin himself would fall in love and become a father. The idea gave him a small thrill, and he smiled a little bigger.
Shawn, however, was miserable. It had been four weeks since he'd spoken with Nadine. She had called him dozens of times. Sometimes she left voice-mail. He'd received angry messages, disappointed messages, confused messages. He deleted them all except for one he'd gotten just after midnight one night. It was the one where she cried, and whispered that she missed him. When he first listened to it he thought she was drunk, but as he played it over and over again he realized that she was just very sad. He punished himself with that message. Used it to draw out the guilt he felt at hurting her.
But he couldn't call her back. Calling her seemed to much like betraying his mother's memory. After all, if Helen hadn't been shot, they wouldn't have stayed in New York and a relationship with her wouldn't have been possible. It was like God had traded one of the women Shawn loved for another and the idea made him sick.
The Fire Cracker was locked up when they got there. Through the grimy glass of the front window (they had finally gotten around to taking down all the two by fours) they could see Jimmy wiping down the bar, and Joey sweeping. Kevin knocked and waved at Jimmy as he looked up. Jimmy shouted something to Joey, who then dropped the broom and let them in.
"You guys want some beers or are you stocked up for the night?" Joey asked.
"Well . . . ," Kevin hesitated.
"Get him a beer, Joey." Jimmy said. "Might as well go for it, Kev. Shawny," Jimmy turned to him. "You want one?"
"No thanks," Shawn shook his head, and sat down in a dirty chair next to the pool table.
Kevin began explaining the Jenny and Tommy situation to Jimmy and Joey, and they were voicing their approval when Shawn tuned out. He stuck his hand into his pocket and touched his phone. He ran his fingers over the smooth surface. Flipped it open, and touched the buttons. Finally he pulled it out, and habitually activated the voicemail.
"One saved message," The automated voice told him. "From phone number four two two one—,"
Shawn gasped as the phone was slapped out of his hand. It hit the floor hard and started emitting a high pitched squeal. Kevin glared down at him, intensely angry. "If you listen to that god damn message one more time I'm going to beat the shit out of you, Shawn."
"What message?" Shawn glared back and reached for the phone.
"Whatever, Shawn. You know what I'm talking about." Kevin put his foot in front of the phone. "You're not getting it back,"
"It's my phone, Kevin,"
"I don't care. I'm done letting you use it like some kind of pathetic razor blade to cut yourself with. Unless you want to pick it up and return her call, just leave it where it's at Shawn."
"I can't call her!" Shawn shouted. "How can I even begin to explain everything that's happened? How do I tell her why I haven't talked to her in four weeks? How do I say any of it? It won't do any good, Kevin, it's over."
"No," Kevin shouted back. "No it's not over. Ma died. But you didn't die, and I didn't die, and Tommy and Jimmy didn't die. We're all still alive, and so it's okay to act like we have lives. Get on with it now, Shawny."
"Screw you, Kevin,"
"If he won't do it," Jimmy intervened. "We'll talk to Tommy, and maybe the three of us can find him a good shrink."
The threat was a bluff. Shawn knew it. But at the same time he realized that Kevin was right, and that his brothers cared enough about him that they would take drastic measures if he didn't pull out soon. Could he pull out?
He picked up the phone and looked at it.
"Are you gonna do it?" Kevin asked.
Shawn looked up at his older brother, the one who was supposed to be so immature and clueless. And he nodded, and walked outside. The numbers glowed as he punched them in. Four two two one eight seven two . . .