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A Brother's Gift Michael Wiecek |
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Thing is, my brother and I don’t get along, which is funny, because of how often people think I’m him. They’ll walk up to me on Federal Hill with these fake smiles and just start talking. Then they see I’m alone, no muscle around, and maybe they notice the beat-up jeans – like, where’s the suit? Just as they start to look puzzled I say, “No, you’re thinking of Angie Cirrino. I’m Joe.” Then they disappear. Not that I feel great about it. Even now he’s been arrested – really arrested, not the everyday stuff, but he’s in court every day and locked up at night – it still happens. I mean, don’t they watch TV? When he walks out of the courtroom in an orange jumpsuit and manacles, you know he’s not headed to the Biltmore for a pick-me-up. What the DA has him up on is a joke, though. The knife must have been planted. Nobody kills nobody with a lousy switchblade anymore – even the grade-schoolers are carrying semi-auto, at least. It’s the 21st century, for Christ’s sake. Anyway, everyone knows Angie would blow the guy up. That’s how he started, dynamite behind the front axles of his enemies. Still, they got Capone for taxes, right? And I have to say it doesn’t look good for Angie. So anyway it’s dark, five a.m., I’m out trying to de-ice my frozen car lock. It’s Christmas Eve, and I have to pull a shift at the EZ Mart. A little colder we’d have snow like a picture postcard, but it’s not quite freezing so instead we get the usual Providence sleet. I’m huddled over, trying to protect my lighter so I can heat up the key, but the wind keeps blowing the flame out. Which is why I don’t notice the other car pull up until the two guys get out and one taps me on the shoulder. Of course I drop the lighter and it disappears into the grimy slush at the curb. “Joe Cirrino?” He’s very big and very wide, wearing fingerless leather gloves. I’m so startled I start to say, “No, you’re thinking of—” but I catch myself and just nod. “Angie sent us. Wanted to give you a present.” He’s holding a package wrapped in cheap, red-and-green paper, already spattered and discolored from the freezing rain. They hustle me inside, and for a moment I’m embarrassed at my cramped apartment: cheap TV on the folding table, crumpled Hydrox cookie bag and blankets unmade on the couch where I sleep. They don’t sit down. I tear soggy paper off the package and we stare at a discolored lump inside several layers of plastic wrap. “Dirt?” “No, you jerk,” he says. “Fruitcake. Holly made it.” “Oh.” After a moment, “I didn’t know she could cook.” He shrugs. “She wanted to do something nice for you.” That is so absurd I actually laugh. Angie married her for two obvious reasons, both located just above her sternum. Martha Stewart she’s not. “Tell her thanks. I guess I owe them, now.” A meaningless smile. “Since you mention it.” He motions to the second guy, who hands me a taped-over shopping bag stuffed full. It tears when I pull at the tape, and several pieces of clothing fall out. I gather up a suit, dark gray, with a white shirt and an expensive tie. It looks like something my brother would wear. “They’re his,” the guy says. “You’re practically twins, so they should fit fine. He wants you to do him a favor.” So they explain it, while I hold the suit. It happens the judge is letting Angie out over Christmas. Like house arrest – he has to go home and stay there, then drive straight back to the courthouse on Monday, and the police are going to check in. He earned it by being such a good citizen during the trial. Of course, you have to wonder if there isn’t going to be something extra under the judge’s tree this year. “But Angie’s going nuts,” the guy says. “He needs way more vacation than a weekend in front of the VCR. He wants sunshine.” “Miami, right?” He’s down there a lot, during the winter. The guy shrugs again. What they want me to do is pretend I’m him. Dress in his clothes, drive his car, sleep at his Barrington mansion. Angie gets two days in the sun, Holly in a bikini, rum drinks on the beach. He comes back, I sneak away and no one’s the wiser. “And what do I get?” “Four grand. And there’s a really good bar in the house.” “What if Angie disappears?” The guy gives me a look. “What’s he gonna do, spend the rest of his life on the run?” “Well . . . yeah.” “It ain’t worth it. Any place nice enough you wanna live there, they’ll have one of those extra-big treaties, you know? Joe, he likes the good life. No third-world ratholes for him.” “Extradition,” I say, thinking it over. Four grand isn’t much for a possible obstruction charge. On the other hand, what’s my alternative? — listening to muzak versions of “Little Drummer Boy” and selling cigarettes and Slim Jims to losers with nothing better to do on Christmas Day than hit the EZ Mart. “Four’s not enough,” I say. “Make it five.” “Sure.” No hesitation, so of course I should have asked for more. “Let’s go.” Which is all to explain why I’m walking out of the state courthouse just after lunch, dressed in a sharp suit and shiny shoes. We did the switch in a bathroom off the marble hallway, Angie’s guys keeping the door shut for a few moments while he pulled on some stained overalls. I believe we said more to each other than we had for the last five years. Two or three sentences, at least. And now I’m crossing the plaza, headed for the street. For the first time in my life, people are looking at me, thinking I’m Angie – and not realizing they’re wrong. Interest, fear, respect . . . you know what? It feels great. Angie’s DeVille is parked just off the plaza. I check the keys in my pocket one more time. A siren wails away from the courthouse, then a car backfires, the muffler dragging noisily down the street, and I don’t even jump. I get to the DeVille, open the door like I’ve been driving it all my life, and sink into the soft leather. I find the ignition and turn the ke—
The End
Copyright(c) 2004 by Mike Wiecek
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