Original Work: False Pretense
Jul. 6th, 2011 10:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
the_huffsterTitle: False Pretense
Author: the_huffster
Rating: R for language and violence
Synopsis: Growing up in one of Brenton City's most feared crime families has never been easy for Jack Quinn, especially with the pressure to take over the business weighing down on him. But with the untimely murder of his father, will Jack fulfill his so called "Destiny"?
Author's Note: So this is a short story I wrote a while ago, and it's all a part of this novel that I've been working on for a few years now.
Green eyes took in the smile on the man’s beaten face, it was the type of smile a man gave just before he died. The seventeen year old recalled seeing a similar smile eight ears ago, his father’s laughter filling his ear just as it was now. He adjusted his grip on the revolver and thought back to that night as images flashed across his mind. The teenager could still feel the warm blood on him, still picture the smirk his father wore as he turned from the body. The memory caused fear to embrace his body at the idea of doing the exact same thing.
“C’mon, kid!” one his father’s men, Mike, called. “Kayla’s cookin’ a hot dinner, and I’m starvin’!”
Murmurs of agreement reached his ears, but the broken man in front of him begged for his attention. A thumb ran over the engraving, the words ‘Jack Quinn’ seeming to remind him of who he was. More like who I’m supposed to be, he thought as his neck gave a satisfying crack. Jack could feel his father standing behind him and he knew he had bought up as much time as possible.
“If you let him live Jack,” his voice was barely a whisper in his ear. “This...rat will tell Williams, and then we’ll be in...”
“I know, Dad!” he snapped, his eyes trained on their hostage.
Jack had heard enough about Tommy “Bang Bang” Williams and what he would do to them if he found out they were responsible for his lost of business. Williams was the only reason he had the barrel of his revolver aimed at the man, and Jack didn’t understand why he had to do this. He wasn’t the one who told his father to trust Williams with his territory, it wasn’t Jack’s fault Williams took over while the older Quinn was in prison. Jack held no part in convincing his father to trust someone from the Gallery. But at that moment, Jack couldn’t think about his father’s mistake.
“No pressure, right?” a strained smile dried on his lips as he forced out a laugh.
“You got this, kiddo.” His father let out a small chuckle at his son’s attempt to lighten up the atmosphere. “This is what you were born for,”
There was a small squeeze on his shoulder before his father walked away. Jack noticed the gun start to shake as his grip tightened, willing himself to do what he was asked. He saw the tear stains on the man’s cheeks and regret tugged at his heart.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered before turning his head away, his eyes closing at the sound of the gun going off.
For a brief moment he was nine years old again, hiding in a bush to see what his father’s work consisted of. Confusion consumed him once the gun fire started up, he didn’t understand why his father, the man he had looked up to, was killing the group of men he had been talking with. Then there was that man who had seen him, his blood covering Jack’s small body by the end of the night. He shuttered at the memory of that smile and made his way back to the car, throwing the revolver on the seat.
“You okay, Jack?” his father asked, the warehouse disappearing behind them as Pete sped off.
“Yep.” He kept his gaze on the window as his fingers curled around the cuffs of his shirt, the red material smooth to the touch.
“You sure?”
“Positive.” The conversation had reached its end.
No one said a word for the remainder of the car ride.
***************************************************************
The car had been parked in the driveway for a good ten minutes and Jack couldn’t bring himself to leave the inside, his green eyes tracing the black spade pattern he had added to the blue material of his jeans as his fingers drummed on the leather seat. The forest surrounding his house seemed to swallow him as he sat in the Bentley, the night’s events hitting him full force. Jack took a deep breath and made his way towards the house, the revolver safely tucked into an inside pocket of the black vest. Shadows crept around him as he dragged his feet up the driveway, the house looming over him as if it were the expectations of his father. The sound of humming met his ears and Jack made his way to the kitchen, smiling at his mother as he sat at the table.
“What’s the matter, Sweetheart?” he took the dark blue fedora off his head as his mother sat across from him, his fingers tracing the black silk that ran along the rim.
“Nothin’,” he tilted his head to the side while his hand ran up and down his pant leg. “What makes you ask?”
“I’m a mother, I know these things.” She giggled, taking a sip of her coffee.
“I’m fine.” It was easier to lie to her if he didn’t have to see those baby blues.
“Jack.” A blush crept on his face at being caught in a lie.
“How much does it mean to Dad if I go into...the business?” Jack never could get himself say ‘the Gallery’, not after he knew the difference between those lunatics and the other crime families like his.
“A lot. You’d be a guaranteed ally.” Suspicion wrapped itself around her voice as she lowered her cup, one of her eyebrows arching. “Why?”
“Well...” Jack rubbed the back of his neck, green eyes focused on the worn table.
The sound of an open palm hitting the table caused him to jump back in his chair, an expression of shock on his face. Kayla Quinn, his mother, had never once lost her temper with him, his father usually dealt in that department. Upon seeing her expression, Jack regretted bringing up the subject.
“Jack Barrow Quinn, don’t ya dare tell me you’ve changed your mind!” she took a deep breath as she pushed a bleached blonde lock behind her ear. “Your father has been waiting for this since ya were born.”
Jack opened his mouth to state his case, but snapped it shut at his mother’s look. Over the last seventeen years, Jack had been given that look enough times to know that it was not the time to interrupt his mother.
“Jacky, you’ve told us ya wanted ta do this since ya were thirteen...” her tone softened as she pinched the bridge of her nose, another sign that she was calming down. “And now with your father’s involvement in the Gallery...”
“But Ma...I wanna make a name for myself, y’know? I don’t wanna be remembered as the kid who got in to help his dad, kinda hurts the ego.” Jack gave a slight shrug before letting out a small sigh. “I still wanna join the Gallery, it’s just...the killing thing’s hard to get over. The guy I killed tonight, he was someone’s son! Imagine if that was me, Mom. How would you feel?”
“That’s different,” she rolled her eyes as she waved the subject away with her hand. “That’s like comparin’ rocks and diamonds.”
“No it ain’t!” he protested, continuing before his mother could get the upper hand of the conversation. “I don’t even see how Dad thinks I’m cut out for this...the man’s practically the next John Dillinger! How can I live up to that while I’m runnin’ with a bunch of freaks playin’ dress up?”
“He has faith in ya, Jack. We all do,”
Silence followed the sentence, his father’s faint curses drifting down from the study was the only thing that could be heard. Jack leaned back in his chair and locked his hands behind his head, knowing the question that clung to his mother’s throat. All he could do was hope she didn’t voice it.
“Does your father know?” he cringed at the question.
“No, and please don’t tell him.” Jack sat forward and looked at her, begging with his eyes that she could keep at least one secret. “I just...”
They both watched as Mike and Pete (‘the boys’ as Jack called them) walked into the kitchen, grabbing bags of chips and a six pack before heading back to the basement to finish their poker game. Once the basement door closed, Jack turned his gaze back to his mother. She tapped her index finger to her chin, her face screwed up in thought.
“Alright,” she sighed and Jack’s face broke out into a grin. “But I’m not gettin’ involved when he finds out. When that time comes, you’re on your own JJ.”
“Don’t call me that!” despite Jack’s efforts, a laugh erupted from his throat. “I ain’t five anymore.”
“As long as ya live here, I’ll call ya whatever I damn well feel like callin’ ya.”
“I’m gonna go to bed,” Jack didn’t feel like talking anymore. “Night, Mom.”
“Night,” he saw the smirk creep on to her face as he made his way to the stairs. “JJ.”
“MOM!” he growled, stomping up to his room when the sound of her giggling filled the kitchen.
**************************************
Jack woke up to the shrill ringing of his alarm clock, the teenager’s body tangled in the silk sheets of his bed. He could feel his heart pound against his rib cage as the last few images of his dream left him, sweat soaking his messy blonde hair. Out of the corner of his eyes, Jack saw his normal attire hanging on the door hinge, a note attached to the deep red shirt.
“The shit...?” a yawn climbed its way out of his mouth as he trudged over to the outfit and grabbed the note.
“Had Pete take care of your clothes.” Jack rolled his eyes at the sentence, mouthing the words ‘no shit’ before continuing. “Freshen up and come to the study.”
It wasn’t signed, but the elegant script told Jack the note was from his father. He ran a hand through his damp hair as he entered the conjoined bathroom, starting up the shower as he pulled a towel off the rack. The seventeen year old stepped out of his navy blue boxers before jumping into the shower, letting the warm water melt the tension that hugged his shoulders. Remembering the he had to meet his father, Jack quickly went through his daily shower ritual and wrapped the lush towel around his waist in a matter of minutes.
Within five minutes Jack began buttoning up his vest as he walked towards the study. He stood outside the oak doors as he slicked back his hair, tucking in his shirt as he walked in. Green eyes landed on the sharp dressed stranger, his dark hair slicked back.
“There he is!” his father announced once he saw his son, him and the stranger walking over to Jack. “Ralph, this is my son Jack. Jack, I want you to meet an associate of mine.”
“Ralph Tyler,” Jack shook his offered hand, noticing the sleazy smile he wore. “So you’re the prince of the Quinn family.”
“I’m hardly a prince, Mr. Tyler.” Jack muttered, shifting to his right foot as a slight blush crept on to his face.
“Nonsense! Your father’s alliance with the Gallery has made him royalty.” He chuckled.
“And that makes me a prince, huh?” Jack raised an eyebrow.
“Of course,” Ralph laughed, patting his shoulder. “In fact, your father is so good at what he does there are people in the Gallery who would love him dead. His popularity has grown to include both the Gallery and the families.”
Jack picked up on Ralph’s tone, and an uneasy feeling settled in his gut. He knew how common it was for a Gallery member to make an alliance with one of the families, only to turn on them in the end.
“Ralph was telling me about a job he’s doing tonight,” his father cut in, throwing his arm around Jack’s shoulders.
“He wants you to go with him.”
“What?” Jack turned to look at the Gallery member.
“I heard you’ll be joining the Gallery soon, and what better way to fine tune your skills than from doing a job with the Shadow?” Jack didn’t trust this man, there was something about his smile that threw him off. “What do you say?”
“Thanks for the offer, Mr. Tyler.” Jack started, wanting to get far away from Ralph. “But I’m exhausted from last night. Killing for the first time ain’t easy for a kid,”
“Right,” Ralph nodded his head agreement before looking at his father. “What about you, Jay? I need an extra hand to pull this off, and it would show the rest people like you can be trusted.”
“Just tell me the time and place,” Jack’s father grinned as he gently pushed Jack behind him.
Sighing, the teenager made his way out of the study as his father went back to discussing business with Ralph. A small yelp sounded from him as he turned around and saw Mike leaning against the wall, a frown tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“You don’t trust him either, huh kid?” the dark haired man asked him, a smirk on his face at Jack’s shocked expression.
“No,” he shook his head as they walked towards the living room. “I just hope Dad’s gonna be okay tonight.”
“Don’t worry bout it, Jack. Your dad’s practically public enemy number one, of course he’ll be alright. Plus if anything did happen to your old man, your cousin is more than capable of takin’ over.” Mike shoved Jack’s shoulder playfully, getting a snicker out of the teenager. “But that ain’t gonna happen, he always comes back to you.”
“Yeah, he does.” Jack grinned, flopping on to the couch as he turned the television on. “Thanks, Mike.”
“No problem, Jack.”
***************************************
Jack couldn’t help but glare as he saw Ralph walk away from the grave, hatred mixing in with his blood. He put his arm around his sobbing mother in an effort to comfort her, but he knew he couldn’t replace his father. The night before Ralph had sent one of his men to tell Jack and his mother the police had shot his father, but the teenager knew better. He allowed the boys to take his mother back to the house, telling them he needed time to clear his head. His green eyes were glued to the gravestone, his mind etching the words into his skull.
“I should have gone,” he whispered as he kneeled in front of the grave, placing a palm on the smooth marble. “It should’ve been me and not you. I’m sorry, Dad.”
He fought back the threatening tears, not wanting to show any sign of weakness. Jack could still hear his father’s last words to him and all he could feel was regret. His father had had an idea he didn’t want to go into the Gallery, his rejection to Ralph’s offer had confirmed his suspicions. The disappointment in his father’s eyes had burnt into Jack’s memory, the words ‘we’ll discuss this when I get back’ repeating like a broken record. Jack remembered the fight his parents had gotten into below his bedroom window, his mother tried to defend him but it didn’t change the fact that he had let them down.
“You promised me you would come back,” he muttered, his hand curling into a fist as he hit the marble. “You were supposed to come back and try to convince me to be like them! You said you’d come back home, Dad.”
Jack felt a tear roll down his cheek, his sleeve erasing the evidence of his weak side. A minute passed as the tears left him alone and Jack began to snicker, doubling over as he held his sides. He didn’t know where the laughter had come from, but he couldn’t help it. The seventeen year old cackled even harder once he realized that he felt absolutely nothing; not pain, not anger, not sadness, nothing. There was nothing but the uncontrollable urge to laugh as realization hit him.
“I get it now,” he gasped as his eyes began to water from his fit. “It makes sense now.”
“You okay, Jack?”
He scrambled to his feet to see Ralph in front of him, a worried expression on his tanned face. Jack chuckled, his hand pulling his revolver out of his vest. The chuckles softened as he cocked the weapon, aiming it at his father’s so called associate.
“What are you...?” the older man asked, his hand reaching for the inside of his jacket.
“I don’t think so,” the seventeen year old said in a sing-song voice as a gun shot rang out, Ralph holding his bleeding hand. “You made a huge mistake, Buddy Boy.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Ralph yelled, wincing in pain.
“Nothing! I’m perfectly fine,” his foot connected with Ralph’s knee, a snicker escaping his lips at the sound of a loud SNAP! “What’s wrong with you?”
“What did I do?” Ralph cried as he turned on to his back.
“You killed my father, and for what? To say you killed Jack Quinn?!” he chuckled, jumping to the other man’s side as a grin split his face in half. “Guess what, Ralph. Now that you killed him...”
“I didn’t...” his sentence died off, Jack’s fist landing next to Ralph’s nose.
“Shut up! You’re apart of the Gallery and my father was a crime boss! Everyone knows the two don’t mix,” Jack shouted, kneeling next to Ralph as he held the revolver to the man’s temple. “You should have expected me to come after you. I’d like to thank you though, Ralph. Wanna know why?”
Jack let out a small snicker as he brought the butt of the revolver down on Ralph’s collar bone with a force unusual for his scrawny figure, his free hand forcing Ralph to look at him. The teenager brought the gun back to his head as he glanced at the engraving, the words ‘Jack Quinn’ telling him he was doing the right thing.
“I’d like to thank you for convincing me to go into the Gallery. Someone has to bring order to those freaks,” he pushed the muzzle of the revolver harder into his flesh. “And also for...opening my eyes. Because now I see how it really is. You work your whole life to build something for yourself, only to die and lose everything. I gotta know, why’d ya kill him?”
“It’s like you said...I’m from the Gallery, he was from a crime family.” Ralph grunted, holding his hand closer to his body as he tried to squirm out of Jack’s grip. “I needed to give him a dose of reality. He walked around like he owned this goddamn city, like he was God! Who gave him the right to decide life or death?”
Jack just stared at the bleeding man beneath him.
“That bullet was meant for you, kid. You get into the Gallery, there’s no hope for anyone.” He continued, his eyes narrowed up at his attacker. “You’ll just kill people for your own sick pleasure!”
“You’re wrong there, Ralphy! I wouldn’t be killing people, I would be delivering the punchline to this sick and twisted joke we call life.” Jack explained, placing his free hand on Ralph’s shoulder as he grinned. “And now...”
Hysterical laughter filled the cemetery again as he pulled the trigger, a sense of amusement and joy growing when he saw the bloody halo around Ralph’s head. He placed the revolver back into the pocket of his vest before pulling out the dead man’s wallet, pocketing the cash as he gave the limp arm a pat.
“Someone’s gotta deliver that punchline, Ralphy Boy.” The seventeen year old sighed as he stood up, nudging the body with the tip of his black Converse. “And who better to do the job than myself? Unless you have another person in mind...”
Jack waited a few seconds before snickering, clapping his hands as he jumped up and down with childish glee.
“I didn’t think you would mind. Tell me something, Ralph.” He looked at the bloody corpse, not entirely sure if he expected an answer or not. “Do you think anyone’s gonna miss the Shadow?”
His grin dropped a little at the lack of a reply.
“What kinda name is the Shadow anyways? It’s not mysterious, and it sure as hell ain’t frightening...You don’t look so hot.” he smoothed back his hair before placing his fedora back on. “Maybe you should rest for a bit. See ya around, Ralphy Boy.”
The sound of laughter rang out across the empty cemetery as Jack walked away, his hands in his pockets and a spring in his step.
******************************************
The sound of a stack of papers hitting the desk caused the young man to jerk back in his chair. Photos of a young woman lying in a pool of blood were spread out before him, adding to the fear that gripped him. He took another look at the pictures and felt his breakfast climb up his throat, grunting as the rope bit into his wrists when he lurched forward.
“That’s my sister!” he yelled, struggling against his restraints. “You sick bastard!”
“I know, that’s why I went after her.” The voice was calm, a hint of amusement hiding in his tone. “I had to remind you of who you were dealing with, Ozzie. You sold your sold to the Prince, you couldn’t have expected me to let your selfishness slide? You’ll be lucky if she lives through the night,”
“I’ll kill you, Jack!” he shouted once the meaning of the sentence hit him. “I swear I’ll kill you...”
“Good!” Jack laughed, leaning over the table as a spark of insanity flashed in his eyes. “I want you to, Ozzie. Know why? Because you’ll prove a point I’m trying to show everyone.”
A long pause settled over them as Ozzie looked at the black and white photos, tears stinging his dark eyes. Everyone had told him Jack Quinn, the Gallery’s “Prince”, was a whack-job with no regard to the rules or anyone else, that he was insane. But Ozzie needed the money.
“I liked you too, Oz.” Jack sighed as he picked up a photo, chuckling at the image. “This is my favorite shot. The lighting is so...and the way the angle captures your sister’s pain. What’d ya think?”
“What’s your point, Jack?” Ozzie muttered as he adverted his gaze.
“My point? Oh, right...that.” he put a hand into the pocket of his jeans. “My point is that the sanest of men, that’s you, can turn out like yours truly. Wanna know the difference, Ozzie?”
“I don’t care, Jack.” Ozzie cut him off just as Jack’s grin was wiped off his face.
“You leave me no choice,” the barrel of his revolver was aimed at Ozzie’s glistening forehead. “In the end I was gonna kill ya, but I was hopin’ to get better mileage on you. I didn’t work with my cousin for three years just to lose it all to some punk who thinks he’s better then the Quinn family. You should’ve known better then to try and sell me out to that creep Zucco!”
The gun was cocked and Ozzie steadied his breath, a silent prayer on his lips.
“Before you kill me...” he began, much to Jack’s disappointment.
“I don’t have time for this,” his finger squeezed the trigger, and his mind went back to his first kill.
Ozzie’s body slumped forward in the wooden chair, his crimson blood staining the photos. Jack placed the revolver back in his black vest before putting the fedora back on his head, leaving some of his men to dispose of the body. The twenty year old left the warehouse and walked to the edge of the dock, watching the sun set over the bay. Green eyes glanced down at the water’s still surface as he took a much needed drag from his cigarette, his reflection bringing a smile to his face.
“The difference between me and them,” he explained to no one in particular, needing to finish his traditional speech. “A bad day. Just one. Bad. Day.”
Author: the_huffster
Rating: R for language and violence
Synopsis: Growing up in one of Brenton City's most feared crime families has never been easy for Jack Quinn, especially with the pressure to take over the business weighing down on him. But with the untimely murder of his father, will Jack fulfill his so called "Destiny"?
Author's Note: So this is a short story I wrote a while ago, and it's all a part of this novel that I've been working on for a few years now.
Green eyes took in the smile on the man’s beaten face, it was the type of smile a man gave just before he died. The seventeen year old recalled seeing a similar smile eight ears ago, his father’s laughter filling his ear just as it was now. He adjusted his grip on the revolver and thought back to that night as images flashed across his mind. The teenager could still feel the warm blood on him, still picture the smirk his father wore as he turned from the body. The memory caused fear to embrace his body at the idea of doing the exact same thing.
“C’mon, kid!” one his father’s men, Mike, called. “Kayla’s cookin’ a hot dinner, and I’m starvin’!”
Murmurs of agreement reached his ears, but the broken man in front of him begged for his attention. A thumb ran over the engraving, the words ‘Jack Quinn’ seeming to remind him of who he was. More like who I’m supposed to be, he thought as his neck gave a satisfying crack. Jack could feel his father standing behind him and he knew he had bought up as much time as possible.
“If you let him live Jack,” his voice was barely a whisper in his ear. “This...rat will tell Williams, and then we’ll be in...”
“I know, Dad!” he snapped, his eyes trained on their hostage.
Jack had heard enough about Tommy “Bang Bang” Williams and what he would do to them if he found out they were responsible for his lost of business. Williams was the only reason he had the barrel of his revolver aimed at the man, and Jack didn’t understand why he had to do this. He wasn’t the one who told his father to trust Williams with his territory, it wasn’t Jack’s fault Williams took over while the older Quinn was in prison. Jack held no part in convincing his father to trust someone from the Gallery. But at that moment, Jack couldn’t think about his father’s mistake.
“No pressure, right?” a strained smile dried on his lips as he forced out a laugh.
“You got this, kiddo.” His father let out a small chuckle at his son’s attempt to lighten up the atmosphere. “This is what you were born for,”
There was a small squeeze on his shoulder before his father walked away. Jack noticed the gun start to shake as his grip tightened, willing himself to do what he was asked. He saw the tear stains on the man’s cheeks and regret tugged at his heart.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered before turning his head away, his eyes closing at the sound of the gun going off.
For a brief moment he was nine years old again, hiding in a bush to see what his father’s work consisted of. Confusion consumed him once the gun fire started up, he didn’t understand why his father, the man he had looked up to, was killing the group of men he had been talking with. Then there was that man who had seen him, his blood covering Jack’s small body by the end of the night. He shuttered at the memory of that smile and made his way back to the car, throwing the revolver on the seat.
“You okay, Jack?” his father asked, the warehouse disappearing behind them as Pete sped off.
“Yep.” He kept his gaze on the window as his fingers curled around the cuffs of his shirt, the red material smooth to the touch.
“You sure?”
“Positive.” The conversation had reached its end.
No one said a word for the remainder of the car ride.
***************************************************************
The car had been parked in the driveway for a good ten minutes and Jack couldn’t bring himself to leave the inside, his green eyes tracing the black spade pattern he had added to the blue material of his jeans as his fingers drummed on the leather seat. The forest surrounding his house seemed to swallow him as he sat in the Bentley, the night’s events hitting him full force. Jack took a deep breath and made his way towards the house, the revolver safely tucked into an inside pocket of the black vest. Shadows crept around him as he dragged his feet up the driveway, the house looming over him as if it were the expectations of his father. The sound of humming met his ears and Jack made his way to the kitchen, smiling at his mother as he sat at the table.
“What’s the matter, Sweetheart?” he took the dark blue fedora off his head as his mother sat across from him, his fingers tracing the black silk that ran along the rim.
“Nothin’,” he tilted his head to the side while his hand ran up and down his pant leg. “What makes you ask?”
“I’m a mother, I know these things.” She giggled, taking a sip of her coffee.
“I’m fine.” It was easier to lie to her if he didn’t have to see those baby blues.
“Jack.” A blush crept on his face at being caught in a lie.
“How much does it mean to Dad if I go into...the business?” Jack never could get himself say ‘the Gallery’, not after he knew the difference between those lunatics and the other crime families like his.
“A lot. You’d be a guaranteed ally.” Suspicion wrapped itself around her voice as she lowered her cup, one of her eyebrows arching. “Why?”
“Well...” Jack rubbed the back of his neck, green eyes focused on the worn table.
The sound of an open palm hitting the table caused him to jump back in his chair, an expression of shock on his face. Kayla Quinn, his mother, had never once lost her temper with him, his father usually dealt in that department. Upon seeing her expression, Jack regretted bringing up the subject.
“Jack Barrow Quinn, don’t ya dare tell me you’ve changed your mind!” she took a deep breath as she pushed a bleached blonde lock behind her ear. “Your father has been waiting for this since ya were born.”
Jack opened his mouth to state his case, but snapped it shut at his mother’s look. Over the last seventeen years, Jack had been given that look enough times to know that it was not the time to interrupt his mother.
“Jacky, you’ve told us ya wanted ta do this since ya were thirteen...” her tone softened as she pinched the bridge of her nose, another sign that she was calming down. “And now with your father’s involvement in the Gallery...”
“But Ma...I wanna make a name for myself, y’know? I don’t wanna be remembered as the kid who got in to help his dad, kinda hurts the ego.” Jack gave a slight shrug before letting out a small sigh. “I still wanna join the Gallery, it’s just...the killing thing’s hard to get over. The guy I killed tonight, he was someone’s son! Imagine if that was me, Mom. How would you feel?”
“That’s different,” she rolled her eyes as she waved the subject away with her hand. “That’s like comparin’ rocks and diamonds.”
“No it ain’t!” he protested, continuing before his mother could get the upper hand of the conversation. “I don’t even see how Dad thinks I’m cut out for this...the man’s practically the next John Dillinger! How can I live up to that while I’m runnin’ with a bunch of freaks playin’ dress up?”
“He has faith in ya, Jack. We all do,”
Silence followed the sentence, his father’s faint curses drifting down from the study was the only thing that could be heard. Jack leaned back in his chair and locked his hands behind his head, knowing the question that clung to his mother’s throat. All he could do was hope she didn’t voice it.
“Does your father know?” he cringed at the question.
“No, and please don’t tell him.” Jack sat forward and looked at her, begging with his eyes that she could keep at least one secret. “I just...”
They both watched as Mike and Pete (‘the boys’ as Jack called them) walked into the kitchen, grabbing bags of chips and a six pack before heading back to the basement to finish their poker game. Once the basement door closed, Jack turned his gaze back to his mother. She tapped her index finger to her chin, her face screwed up in thought.
“Alright,” she sighed and Jack’s face broke out into a grin. “But I’m not gettin’ involved when he finds out. When that time comes, you’re on your own JJ.”
“Don’t call me that!” despite Jack’s efforts, a laugh erupted from his throat. “I ain’t five anymore.”
“As long as ya live here, I’ll call ya whatever I damn well feel like callin’ ya.”
“I’m gonna go to bed,” Jack didn’t feel like talking anymore. “Night, Mom.”
“Night,” he saw the smirk creep on to her face as he made his way to the stairs. “JJ.”
“MOM!” he growled, stomping up to his room when the sound of her giggling filled the kitchen.
**************************************
Jack woke up to the shrill ringing of his alarm clock, the teenager’s body tangled in the silk sheets of his bed. He could feel his heart pound against his rib cage as the last few images of his dream left him, sweat soaking his messy blonde hair. Out of the corner of his eyes, Jack saw his normal attire hanging on the door hinge, a note attached to the deep red shirt.
“The shit...?” a yawn climbed its way out of his mouth as he trudged over to the outfit and grabbed the note.
“Had Pete take care of your clothes.” Jack rolled his eyes at the sentence, mouthing the words ‘no shit’ before continuing. “Freshen up and come to the study.”
It wasn’t signed, but the elegant script told Jack the note was from his father. He ran a hand through his damp hair as he entered the conjoined bathroom, starting up the shower as he pulled a towel off the rack. The seventeen year old stepped out of his navy blue boxers before jumping into the shower, letting the warm water melt the tension that hugged his shoulders. Remembering the he had to meet his father, Jack quickly went through his daily shower ritual and wrapped the lush towel around his waist in a matter of minutes.
Within five minutes Jack began buttoning up his vest as he walked towards the study. He stood outside the oak doors as he slicked back his hair, tucking in his shirt as he walked in. Green eyes landed on the sharp dressed stranger, his dark hair slicked back.
“There he is!” his father announced once he saw his son, him and the stranger walking over to Jack. “Ralph, this is my son Jack. Jack, I want you to meet an associate of mine.”
“Ralph Tyler,” Jack shook his offered hand, noticing the sleazy smile he wore. “So you’re the prince of the Quinn family.”
“I’m hardly a prince, Mr. Tyler.” Jack muttered, shifting to his right foot as a slight blush crept on to his face.
“Nonsense! Your father’s alliance with the Gallery has made him royalty.” He chuckled.
“And that makes me a prince, huh?” Jack raised an eyebrow.
“Of course,” Ralph laughed, patting his shoulder. “In fact, your father is so good at what he does there are people in the Gallery who would love him dead. His popularity has grown to include both the Gallery and the families.”
Jack picked up on Ralph’s tone, and an uneasy feeling settled in his gut. He knew how common it was for a Gallery member to make an alliance with one of the families, only to turn on them in the end.
“Ralph was telling me about a job he’s doing tonight,” his father cut in, throwing his arm around Jack’s shoulders.
“He wants you to go with him.”
“What?” Jack turned to look at the Gallery member.
“I heard you’ll be joining the Gallery soon, and what better way to fine tune your skills than from doing a job with the Shadow?” Jack didn’t trust this man, there was something about his smile that threw him off. “What do you say?”
“Thanks for the offer, Mr. Tyler.” Jack started, wanting to get far away from Ralph. “But I’m exhausted from last night. Killing for the first time ain’t easy for a kid,”
“Right,” Ralph nodded his head agreement before looking at his father. “What about you, Jay? I need an extra hand to pull this off, and it would show the rest people like you can be trusted.”
“Just tell me the time and place,” Jack’s father grinned as he gently pushed Jack behind him.
Sighing, the teenager made his way out of the study as his father went back to discussing business with Ralph. A small yelp sounded from him as he turned around and saw Mike leaning against the wall, a frown tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“You don’t trust him either, huh kid?” the dark haired man asked him, a smirk on his face at Jack’s shocked expression.
“No,” he shook his head as they walked towards the living room. “I just hope Dad’s gonna be okay tonight.”
“Don’t worry bout it, Jack. Your dad’s practically public enemy number one, of course he’ll be alright. Plus if anything did happen to your old man, your cousin is more than capable of takin’ over.” Mike shoved Jack’s shoulder playfully, getting a snicker out of the teenager. “But that ain’t gonna happen, he always comes back to you.”
“Yeah, he does.” Jack grinned, flopping on to the couch as he turned the television on. “Thanks, Mike.”
“No problem, Jack.”
***************************************
Jack couldn’t help but glare as he saw Ralph walk away from the grave, hatred mixing in with his blood. He put his arm around his sobbing mother in an effort to comfort her, but he knew he couldn’t replace his father. The night before Ralph had sent one of his men to tell Jack and his mother the police had shot his father, but the teenager knew better. He allowed the boys to take his mother back to the house, telling them he needed time to clear his head. His green eyes were glued to the gravestone, his mind etching the words into his skull.
“I should have gone,” he whispered as he kneeled in front of the grave, placing a palm on the smooth marble. “It should’ve been me and not you. I’m sorry, Dad.”
He fought back the threatening tears, not wanting to show any sign of weakness. Jack could still hear his father’s last words to him and all he could feel was regret. His father had had an idea he didn’t want to go into the Gallery, his rejection to Ralph’s offer had confirmed his suspicions. The disappointment in his father’s eyes had burnt into Jack’s memory, the words ‘we’ll discuss this when I get back’ repeating like a broken record. Jack remembered the fight his parents had gotten into below his bedroom window, his mother tried to defend him but it didn’t change the fact that he had let them down.
“You promised me you would come back,” he muttered, his hand curling into a fist as he hit the marble. “You were supposed to come back and try to convince me to be like them! You said you’d come back home, Dad.”
Jack felt a tear roll down his cheek, his sleeve erasing the evidence of his weak side. A minute passed as the tears left him alone and Jack began to snicker, doubling over as he held his sides. He didn’t know where the laughter had come from, but he couldn’t help it. The seventeen year old cackled even harder once he realized that he felt absolutely nothing; not pain, not anger, not sadness, nothing. There was nothing but the uncontrollable urge to laugh as realization hit him.
“I get it now,” he gasped as his eyes began to water from his fit. “It makes sense now.”
“You okay, Jack?”
He scrambled to his feet to see Ralph in front of him, a worried expression on his tanned face. Jack chuckled, his hand pulling his revolver out of his vest. The chuckles softened as he cocked the weapon, aiming it at his father’s so called associate.
“What are you...?” the older man asked, his hand reaching for the inside of his jacket.
“I don’t think so,” the seventeen year old said in a sing-song voice as a gun shot rang out, Ralph holding his bleeding hand. “You made a huge mistake, Buddy Boy.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Ralph yelled, wincing in pain.
“Nothing! I’m perfectly fine,” his foot connected with Ralph’s knee, a snicker escaping his lips at the sound of a loud SNAP! “What’s wrong with you?”
“What did I do?” Ralph cried as he turned on to his back.
“You killed my father, and for what? To say you killed Jack Quinn?!” he chuckled, jumping to the other man’s side as a grin split his face in half. “Guess what, Ralph. Now that you killed him...”
“I didn’t...” his sentence died off, Jack’s fist landing next to Ralph’s nose.
“Shut up! You’re apart of the Gallery and my father was a crime boss! Everyone knows the two don’t mix,” Jack shouted, kneeling next to Ralph as he held the revolver to the man’s temple. “You should have expected me to come after you. I’d like to thank you though, Ralph. Wanna know why?”
Jack let out a small snicker as he brought the butt of the revolver down on Ralph’s collar bone with a force unusual for his scrawny figure, his free hand forcing Ralph to look at him. The teenager brought the gun back to his head as he glanced at the engraving, the words ‘Jack Quinn’ telling him he was doing the right thing.
“I’d like to thank you for convincing me to go into the Gallery. Someone has to bring order to those freaks,” he pushed the muzzle of the revolver harder into his flesh. “And also for...opening my eyes. Because now I see how it really is. You work your whole life to build something for yourself, only to die and lose everything. I gotta know, why’d ya kill him?”
“It’s like you said...I’m from the Gallery, he was from a crime family.” Ralph grunted, holding his hand closer to his body as he tried to squirm out of Jack’s grip. “I needed to give him a dose of reality. He walked around like he owned this goddamn city, like he was God! Who gave him the right to decide life or death?”
Jack just stared at the bleeding man beneath him.
“That bullet was meant for you, kid. You get into the Gallery, there’s no hope for anyone.” He continued, his eyes narrowed up at his attacker. “You’ll just kill people for your own sick pleasure!”
“You’re wrong there, Ralphy! I wouldn’t be killing people, I would be delivering the punchline to this sick and twisted joke we call life.” Jack explained, placing his free hand on Ralph’s shoulder as he grinned. “And now...”
Hysterical laughter filled the cemetery again as he pulled the trigger, a sense of amusement and joy growing when he saw the bloody halo around Ralph’s head. He placed the revolver back into the pocket of his vest before pulling out the dead man’s wallet, pocketing the cash as he gave the limp arm a pat.
“Someone’s gotta deliver that punchline, Ralphy Boy.” The seventeen year old sighed as he stood up, nudging the body with the tip of his black Converse. “And who better to do the job than myself? Unless you have another person in mind...”
Jack waited a few seconds before snickering, clapping his hands as he jumped up and down with childish glee.
“I didn’t think you would mind. Tell me something, Ralph.” He looked at the bloody corpse, not entirely sure if he expected an answer or not. “Do you think anyone’s gonna miss the Shadow?”
His grin dropped a little at the lack of a reply.
“What kinda name is the Shadow anyways? It’s not mysterious, and it sure as hell ain’t frightening...You don’t look so hot.” he smoothed back his hair before placing his fedora back on. “Maybe you should rest for a bit. See ya around, Ralphy Boy.”
The sound of laughter rang out across the empty cemetery as Jack walked away, his hands in his pockets and a spring in his step.
******************************************
The sound of a stack of papers hitting the desk caused the young man to jerk back in his chair. Photos of a young woman lying in a pool of blood were spread out before him, adding to the fear that gripped him. He took another look at the pictures and felt his breakfast climb up his throat, grunting as the rope bit into his wrists when he lurched forward.
“That’s my sister!” he yelled, struggling against his restraints. “You sick bastard!”
“I know, that’s why I went after her.” The voice was calm, a hint of amusement hiding in his tone. “I had to remind you of who you were dealing with, Ozzie. You sold your sold to the Prince, you couldn’t have expected me to let your selfishness slide? You’ll be lucky if she lives through the night,”
“I’ll kill you, Jack!” he shouted once the meaning of the sentence hit him. “I swear I’ll kill you...”
“Good!” Jack laughed, leaning over the table as a spark of insanity flashed in his eyes. “I want you to, Ozzie. Know why? Because you’ll prove a point I’m trying to show everyone.”
A long pause settled over them as Ozzie looked at the black and white photos, tears stinging his dark eyes. Everyone had told him Jack Quinn, the Gallery’s “Prince”, was a whack-job with no regard to the rules or anyone else, that he was insane. But Ozzie needed the money.
“I liked you too, Oz.” Jack sighed as he picked up a photo, chuckling at the image. “This is my favorite shot. The lighting is so...and the way the angle captures your sister’s pain. What’d ya think?”
“What’s your point, Jack?” Ozzie muttered as he adverted his gaze.
“My point? Oh, right...that.” he put a hand into the pocket of his jeans. “My point is that the sanest of men, that’s you, can turn out like yours truly. Wanna know the difference, Ozzie?”
“I don’t care, Jack.” Ozzie cut him off just as Jack’s grin was wiped off his face.
“You leave me no choice,” the barrel of his revolver was aimed at Ozzie’s glistening forehead. “In the end I was gonna kill ya, but I was hopin’ to get better mileage on you. I didn’t work with my cousin for three years just to lose it all to some punk who thinks he’s better then the Quinn family. You should’ve known better then to try and sell me out to that creep Zucco!”
The gun was cocked and Ozzie steadied his breath, a silent prayer on his lips.
“Before you kill me...” he began, much to Jack’s disappointment.
“I don’t have time for this,” his finger squeezed the trigger, and his mind went back to his first kill.
Ozzie’s body slumped forward in the wooden chair, his crimson blood staining the photos. Jack placed the revolver back in his black vest before putting the fedora back on his head, leaving some of his men to dispose of the body. The twenty year old left the warehouse and walked to the edge of the dock, watching the sun set over the bay. Green eyes glanced down at the water’s still surface as he took a much needed drag from his cigarette, his reflection bringing a smile to his face.
“The difference between me and them,” he explained to no one in particular, needing to finish his traditional speech. “A bad day. Just one. Bad. Day.”
