Chapter 4 – Screen Door

In Lupin's absence, Jigen and his guest had taken their liberties with room service. Carts on wheels piled up in the corner of the living room. They were watching television with a certain relaxed air, some medical drama.

"I take it you don't want leftovers," Lupin said, bringing his entrance to their attention.

"Not if it's raw fish, man," Jigen said between mouthfuls of a bread roll. "I thought you were on stakeout."

"It was cut short by Zenigata's obsessive-compulsive disorder," Lupin lamented. "But we did learn something rather interesting."

"Oh?"

"Tony Marcello is allied with Silvia Magnelli."

Goemon cut in, "If 'allied' is your choice of words."

Ben spit out what was in his mouth and looked over at Jigen, who immediately got up and left the room.

"For a guy who's not involved, he's rather involved," Lupin observed, turning to Ben. "Explain, doctor."

"Aw, you shouldn't really ask me. I owe it that much to him. Let's just say Silvia's not the greatest woman in the world and leave it at that."

But Lupin wasn't satisfied. He went the way Jigen had gone, into the bedroom.

Jigen was standing out on the balcony, as if beckoning Lupin. His whole posture was expectant, if in a subtle way, as he chewed on his cigarette. He didn't look particularly sober, but that was probably for the best. "I need a favor."

"Really." Lupin said it in a less eagerly curious manner than he usually said things. He leaned against the doorway.

"Yeah." He decided that an elaboration was probably necessary. "It's not help offing someone, if that's what you're thinking."

"The furthest thing from my mind." Lupin straightened up. "I'll help you, but I would appreciate if you tell me what this is about." He added, "Jimmy."

Jigen paused uncomfortably before answering. "After the job." He pushed his hat even further down.

"Now, Jigen." He was rarely so insistent with Jigen. He preferred the annoying and casual suggestion, but he knew it wouldn't work. Very rarely did he put on his 'I'm the boss' hat, but it seemed to work.

"You're really a dick, aren't you?"

"About this, apparently I am. So spill."

"About what?"

"Well, Silvia. Apparently. Start with her."

Jigen made a long sigh, the kind that just let the smoke curl around the brim of his hat. "She's bad news. Always has been. I know that's not saying a lot for me, but I really mean it this time. I told Ben not to marry her, but he was a stupid kid in love, so he didn't listen. Something about her was always – off, to me.

"But Ben, he was totally friggin' paranoid about her safety for some reason. Maybe he was just paranoid about her, I don't know. But he asked me to guard her and I said yes."

Lupin quipped, "Something tell me this doesn't end like a romantic comedy."

"Not funny," Jigen said coldly. "Anyway, I don't know what was going through her head, but she was on the make for me. She was a looker herself but I'm not that stupid. So I said no and she didn't take it well. Told Chris I tried to rape her, to be blunt about it."

"And?"

"You know those screen doors I have in my chest?"

He did. He had certainly seen Jigen half-naked during enough costume changes to notice Jigen had not one but like five or six bullet scars in his chest and a few in the back. It came with the territory, it seemed.

"Well, he put him in there. Down by the docks. You know that thing with cement shoes? Takes too long to pour. It's more like an anchor and some chains."

"But you lived."

"Yeah. Barely."

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16 Years Ago

He was still alive. His mind ran down the list of people who would want that information. Definitely Chris. Silvia. Marco. He wasn't too keen on it himself, because being alive seemed to, at this moment, mean a tremendous amount of pain. Oh, and he'd need oxygen. Another thing on the list.

Slowly his mind came out of its haze, and urgency returned. He needed oxygen, right now. He was underwater. He was going to drown. Hell, if he hadn't already.

Returning to real awareness was not a fun experience. His lungs burned, his legs ached, and opening his eyes, he saw only reddened waters. He could barely see the chains beneath him. The box had landed somewhere, among the debris. He tugged on is restraints feebly for a moment, which brought new waves of pain from the movement. Damnit, why did he have to be alive? It seemed like such a hassle, when it was obvious he was just going to die again.

Slowly but surely, panic was returning. He needed air. He needed freedom. He needed to not be in searing pain. Several tugs, and the cement carton was still as anchored as it had been, somewhere in the murky depths. Living was sure as hell unpleasant, but Jesus Christ, he didn't want to die!

With new fervor he attacked the chains wrapped around his legs. If he could just crush one of them – Yeah, that would be real smart, destroying one of his feet. Good long term plan there.

But he wasn't thinking long term. He kicked off his shoes, and they disappeared into darkness. His socks quickly followed. Okay, all needed to do was remove that skin and wiggle out.

A good deal of skin did have to come off for him to escape the hastily-tied loops of chain, which was painful enough but not in comparison. He drifted to the surface, which looked as dark as the bottom. In fact, everything was rather looking rather black...

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Air was coming in. That, and an awful lot of sand. Not the nice kind, like a beach in Caribbean, but the dirt-like sand of the riverbank. It tasted terrible. He spit some of it out, and flipped over so he could breathe better.

He was still alive, his third surprise of the night, after being shot and being alive the first time. He couldn't sit up yet, and his eyes stung from all the salt water when he opened them, but he was still alive. He could not decide if this was a good thing.

He needed time to rest. Slowly it occurred to him that he didn't have any. He had probably lost a lot of blood – no, correction, he had DEFINITELY lost a lot of blood – and he was losing more. The sand beside him was damp and red, and the waves lapping at his feet were looking similar. Somewhere in his mind he acknowledged that if he lay here, he would just get weaker and weaker.

He came at last to his feet, unsure of which wound to clutch. Some of the bullets were probably still in there. As tempting as the idea was, this was not a situation where he could crash somewhere and heal up. His mind wasn't at its sharpest, but he knew that much. Besides, he was just leaving evidence all over the place that he was still up and moving by standing here.

He was still alive. He needed a constant mental reminder to keep him going as he climbed back up to the docks. It was even later now, probably just before the morning boats went out. The old wood hurt his wounded feet, but that was really the least of his concerns. Should he try to walk to a car and steal it? Should he hide on a boat? Either direction was a blur to him. It was early morning, yet it seemed to be growing darker –

No. He forced himself more awake. If he passed out here, some worker would find him, and his ID, and call around. And then Chris would know he was alive. Chris – he would – He refocused again. Safety. A doctor. He needed a doctor.

His gun, miraculously, was still where it had been tossed by the button men. Bending over to get it was probably more trouble than it was worth, but he felt better with it back in his hands. Stronger. He was going to make it – somehow, as long as he had his magnum.

He walked down the docks – in what direction, he wasn't sure – using one hand to clutch his sides and the other to carry his gun, half-aimed at nothing. His vision was fading again. "Friggin' hell." His voice sounded distant, like it didn't belong to him at all. He could barely see in front of him, not until he crashed into something.

A pay phone. He couldn't decide whether today was his lucky day or horribly unlucky. A little bit of both, really. He leaned against the metal casing and stared at the numbers, as if they would provide him with who to call. No one he worked for. No one he really knew, as they were all connected to the Family. Fuck. He needed a better social life. He needed a cigarette.

Blood covered the casing and was dribbling down the numbers before he remembered Ben. Ben would help him. Ben wouldn't tell anyone. Or he would kill him. It was really that simple. And hopefully, Ben would take a collect call.

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"Hey, kid."

He looked up. His father was looking at him, hovering over him half-aggressively, half-protectively. "What are you doing here?"

"Daisuke – your mom called me Daisuke. She didn't know last names came last. Crazy country they have over there," he offered without explanation. "Get up, you lazy bum."

"Dad." But he couldn't even begin to move. He was trapped there, leaning against the pole beneath the phone.

"I loved her. But, you know, everything over here got a little too crazy. She wasn't a Guinea brat like everyone else."

This was all information he knew. That he had been told a thousand times. "Dad."

"Let me give you some advice: Get up." He said with a smirk, "Or at least wake up."

"Dad?"

"Wake up."

The voice wasn't his father's. Which made sense, because his father was dead. Had been for years. He opened his eyes to Ben Attelberg. They had been in little league together. Now Ben was a doctor – an internist, or something. He didn't know much about doctors. "Hey, Ben." He wanted to say, 'thanks for coming' but his energy was spent. It had been spent when he opened his eyes.

"Jesus, you look terrible." Ben was kneeling next to where he had collapsed against the pole, his body a rag doll. "Who did this to you?"

"If I told you ... you would ... call the cops," he wheezed. "I need ... a favor ..."

"I gotta get you to the hospital, and then you can ask. Let me call an – "

"NO!" he shouted, to his own surprise. He didn't think he had it in him, but he grabbed Ben's arm, smearing the sleeve with his own blood. "Ben – no. I ... can't ... Don't ... register me. I don't want ... anyone – "

"They're gonna find out, when you go missing. Will you stop being macho and let me call?"

"No – don't understand," he said, as Ben wiggled free of his grasp. "They think ... I'm dead ... Need to ... leave it – that way."

Ben paused, until understanding seemed to pass on his face. Ben was a civilian if he ever was one, and so was his whole family, but that didn't mean he was stupid. "I'll try to cover for you, but you still need an ambulance. I think I can register you as someone else."

"Fine ... I ... owe you." He didn't lose consciousness entirely, but a lot of awareness was leaving him. The world was getting lighter and darker at the same time, as his mind descended back into haze. Unfortunately, the pain followed him there. He was alone with it, except for sirens in the distance, and whispered voices.

The light – the light hurt his eyes. He had woken up again, unable to fully find rest, and now there was light everywhere, artificial and humming. He was in the emergency room, and there were men in white coats – they were cutting his clothes off. He rolled his head sideways, and found Ben standing there, putting in an IV.

"You must be the toughest guy in Chicago, and that's saying a lot." Ben said, noticing he was awake, as he raised his hand to his patient trying to speak. "Don't talk. We're gonna give you a cocktail, and you're gonna take a nap, okay?"

He nodded; it was the last thing he remembered.