Sleepers

The bartender nodded in their direction. He knew their faces as well as most of the neighborhood knew their names. They were two of the founding members of the West Side Boys. They were also its deadliest. The thi

The second man was equally deadly and had committed his first murder at the age of seventeen. In return, he was paid fifty dollars. He drank and did drugs and had a wife he never saw living somewhere in Queens.

They walked past the old man and the couple in the first booth and nodded at the waitresses, who eagerly smiled back. They sat down three stools from the businessmen and tapped the wood bar with their knuckles. The bartender, Jerry, an affable middle-aged man with a wife, two kids and his first steady job in six years, poured them each a large shot of Wild Turkey with beer chasers and left the bottle. The thi

The chubby man checked his watch and nudged his friend in the ribs. They were ru

The thin man reached over the bar, grabbed a menu, looked at his friend and shrugged his shoulders. He hated to kill anybody on an empty stomach. He gave the menu to his friend and asked him to order for them both. He needed to use the bathroom. The chubby man took the menu and smiled. He had known the thin man all his life, they had grown up together, gone to the same schools, served time in the same prisons, slept with the same women and put bullets in the same bodies. In all those years, the thin man, without fail, always had to use a bathroom before a meal.

The thin man stood up from his stool and finished off his beer. He then turned and walked down the narrow strip of floor separating booths from bar stools, his hands at his sides, his face turned to the street outside. At the end of the bar, across from the rear booth, his eyes moved from the passing traffic and met those of the man eating the meat loaf special. Both men held the look for a number of seconds, one set of eyes registering recognition, the other filled with a

'I help you with somethin', chief?' the man in the booth said, his mouth crammed with mashed potatoes.

'Not right now,' the thin man said, heading to the back. He smiled down at the man in the booth and told him to enjoy the rest of his meal.

He stumbled into the men's room and ran the cold water in the sink, looking at himself in the mirror. He looked much older than his twenty-six years, the drugs and drink taking a toll on an Irish face still handsome enough to coax a smile from a reluctant woman. He took off his gloves and checked his hands, calm and steady, the skin raw, the scars across both sets of knuckles white and clear. He put the gloves back on and stepped over to the urinal.

'Reynoso, you're one lucky fucker,' he thought to himself.' This piss saved your life.'

He walked out of the men's room and past the man in the back booth. He took his seat next to his friend, put a cigarette in his mouth and poured himself a refill.

'I ordered brisket on a roll,' his friend said. 'With fries. And two baskets of soda bread. I know you like that shit. That okay by you?'

The thin man's eyes were on the small mirror above the bar, riveted on the man in the uniform finishing his meat loaf di

'C'mon,' his friend said, tapping him on the shoulder. 'Let's take the booth behind us. We can spread out all we want.'

The thin man turned to face his friend. He asked him to take a look at the last booth in the pub. To take a good look and study the face of the man sitting in it.

His friend turned in his stool and stared at the man in the zippered jacket. His face stayed blank for the few moments it took to link the man to memory, but his eyes betrayed his swirling emotions.

'You sure it's him?' he asked, his voice harsh, his upper lip twitching. 'You sure it's really him?'

'You know me,' the thin man said. 'I never forget a friend.'

They stayed at the bar long enough to release the safeties on the guns hidden beneath their jackets. They stood up together and walked toward the booth at the back of the pub, the thin man leading the way.

'Hello,' the thin man said, pulling up a chair. 'It's been a long time.'

'Who the fuck are you guys?' the man in the booth demanded. He didn't seem particularly afraid, merely a

'I thought you'd be happy to see us,' the chubby man said. 'Guess I was wrong.'

'I always thought you would do better,' the thin man said, looking at the patches on the sleeves of the jacket. 'All that training, all that time you put in, just to guard somebody else's money. Seems like a waste.'

'I'm askin' you for the last time,' the man said, his temper as hot as his coffee. 'What the fuck do you want?'

The thin man took off his gloves and put them in the front pocket of his leather jacket. He laid his hands flat on the table, the tips of his fingers nudging the sides of the security guard's empty beer glass.

'See the scars?' he asked. 'Look at them. Take your time. It'll come to you.'

The guard stared at the thin man's hands, his upper lip wet with sweat, his body tense, sensing danger, feeling cornered.

Then, he knew.

The knowledge fell across his face like a cold cloth. He sat back, his head resting against the top of the leather booth. He tried to speak but couldn't. His mouth went dry as his hands gripped the edge of the table.

'I can see how you would forget us,' the thin man said softly. 'We were just somethin' for you and your friends to play with.'

'It's a little harder for us to forget,' the chubby one said. 'You gave us so much more to remember.'

'That was a long time ago,' the security guard said, the words coming out in a struggle. 'We were just kids.'

'We're not kids now,' the thin man said.

'Whatta ya' want me to say?' the security guard asked, anger returning to his voice. 'That I'm sorry? Is that what you want? An apology?'

'No,' the thin man said, moving his hands off the table and onto his lap. 'I know you're not sorry and hearin' you say it won't change a fuckin' thing.'

'Then what?' the security guard asked, leaning over his empty platter. 'What do you want?'

'What I've always wanted, Nokes,' the thin man said. 'To watch you die.'

The thin man, John Reilly, and his chubby friend, Tommy 'Butter' Marcano, were on their feet, a gun in each hand. All movement in the pub ceased. The young woman at the back table took her hand off her boyfriend and clasped it over her mouth.