Chapter 3 - Old Wounds
The battlefield reenacted itself around him as he walked toward the Garrison. Normal, everyday sounds were muffled by fake booms and whizzes of war. Shovels pounded harder than ever. Time moved slowly. People on the streets walked past him in a blur. "Tommy! Tommy!" called a distant voice. A pat on the shoulder sprang him back to reality.
"Tommy! We've been looking all over for ya! Where have you been?" said Arthur, "You've been gone for hours!" Arthur noticed the blood on his face. "What happened?" he asked in a lower more serious tone.
"Nothing, just business. It's taken care of," Tommy said quickly. They entered the Garrison. Tommy pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face.
"What kind of business?" demanded Arthur.
"Our kind of business, Arthur," Tommy said dryly. His buttoned coat shielded some of that business. His callous demeanor tried to hide everything else. Arthur followed him out the back toward his office.
"You want to share? Course not. Well, I hope you have a plan for all this. You missed half of our meeting," berated Arthur.
"It was nothing that I didn't already know," Thomas stated shrewdly. The newly made tightness around his middle irritated him even more than Arthur. So, he pulled out a bottle of whiskey from his desk and poured a glass.
"Yeah, because Thomas fucking Shelby knows everything," said Arthur. He went for the door. "I hope you have a plan for this," Arthur declared as he left. Thomas put his head in his hands contemplating the clash of recent events. Then, he straightened himself. His hand hovered over his coat button. Eyes closed, he opened the coat slowly, hoping the secret underneath had magically gone away just as it had arrived. He peered down to find his shirt and pants still pushed out by the small orb resting on his hips. Thomas let out a trembling sigh. "You and me both," he whispered to himself as if Arthur was still in the room. "You and me both."