Chapter 2
6.347 4.819
Reddit—upload—sent.
Laura watches through blurry tear-filled eyes as fifteen photos of Bobby Vellets death uploads to the worldwide web. Once uploaded, a three-second video plays. That of Bobby Vellet, staring at the camera, gargling and coughing up blood. Soon, the world as she knew will be flipped upside down. Soon, the image of Bobby Vellet loosely holding his M1911 as he's fallen back on the wall, cackling, will be the front of every newspaper, and every internet
feed. Laura slams the car in reverse and takes off down the street—the tires squealing like a pig. She looks outside to the midnight stars; cold air fills the car. A hand of bones lands on her shoulder, she jumps in her skin.
"You did good," a whisper from the wind.
"I killed the man I loved," Laura wipes her glassy eyes and runny nose. The car shifts. The speedometer hits 80 miles per hour, climbing.
"Now please don't kill my children. I've done what you asked—"
"No. You've done what needs to be done."
Laura bites down on her lips, cutting through traffic, making her way to the huge bridge that connects both Calla islands.
Her mind jumps to Colleen and Michael.
I need to reach Richard. I need to get to that damn abandoned hotel and get the fuck out of here.
And without an answer, the bird-like feathered hand, vanishes.
* * *
George Deen walks down the hallway towards the kitchen sink. Above the sink, a window that shows the full moon surrounded by stars. The marble tiles are warm against his feet, he places his cup of milk onto the counter and wipes a few tears from his eyes.
It's impossible to mistake that gunfire as anything but an accident. Whatever went down at the Bobby Vellet estate—he can only pray.
That the devil got his due.
There is an old phone that hangs on the kitchen wall. It rings. His eyes scan across the kitchen; towards the window and the large estate in view. Bobby's estate. The phone rings again. And George finds himself caught up at the many images on his stainless-steel fridge. That of his ex-wife and five kids. And while he glosses over them, there is one image larger than the others. An image of his boy, Eric Deen, when he graduated Police College.
"Hello? Is this. . . George Deen?"
The phone rings again. And this time, George picks up.
Beneath that image, are the words will forever be missed.
Colleen.
It's the daughter of Bobby Vellet—
And daughter of the woman you fell in love with,
and died with. Eric.
"Colleen Vellet?"
"Yes, yes, this is her. Please, my father, Bobby, he told me to call—"
"
"Take a deep breath my girl. Take a deep breath and settle down."
He can feel the urgency in her voice, as if the faster she speaks, the faster this problem will be solved.
"Dad was just killed. . . murdered by a Laura Marian. And before he died, he told me to call you. Dad told me to call you because he said you would know what to do."
"And I do know what to do, now have you called the police?"
"No-no not yet,"
"Okay, well call the police, and wait out. I'll be over in a little bit. And in the meantime, make sure your brother doesn't drink himself to bed."
"Y-yes. I'll make sure the front door is unlocked?"
"Thank you,"
George hangs up the phone with largest grin he's ever had. The kind of grin one would wear if they won the lottery. And in many cases, George has indeed, won the lottery.
After all, he has been waiting forever for Bobby Vellets death. Even, if. . .his death is a little more complex than the average human.
Quickly, George exits the kitchen and takes a hard right down a corridor. He's walking towards his office door at the end of the hall.
And with each step he takes, Mr. Deen embraces a crescendo of cackling laughter.
Finally. Dead.
"It's a dog eat dog world, isn't it Bobby?"
Cold air crawls up and down his back.
God, he never thought he'd see the day—But karma has a fucking way of catching up to everyone, eh?
He thinks back to the murder of his son Eric and Bobby's late wife. It was the murder that shocked him to the core. Because at that point in time, his son, Eric, was one hundred feet deep into the crime world working undercover as Bobby Vellet's secondhand man. The problem? Bobby Vellet never did anything wrong—able to move pawns to do his work. And his ability to wiggle his way through even the tightest of cracks, was never more apparent than when Eric Deen and Katherine Vellet were found naked and dead in an abandoned hotel just outside of Calla. Bobby Vellet opened his doors to the investigation. And it was an interesting one. A 24-hour newsreel as America watched as closely as they could—wondering if this was the end for Bobby and his Empire.
But it wasn't. The Crime scene was labeled a murder-suicide.
Mr. Deen opens his office door—gritting his teeth.
A double murder. And while back then, I couldn't understand how you managed to convince my son to shoot your wife and kill himself; all it took was for you to reveal the truth to me, wasn't it?
Mr. Deen approaches his desk that sits between two windows with curtains as black as charcoal.
He steps up to the desk and opens the drawer.
Who knew being the Devils second hand was such a pain in the ass?
Mr. Deen tilts his head. He can smell the burning tobacco. He turns to the shadows.
"You had one job, Bobby, to stay the fuck alive."
Bobby cackles, manifesting in a crimson red suit and a burning cigar glued to his mouth. A blazing star on a cloudless night.
"You seem awfully calm for being vulnerable," Mr. Deen answers.
"And I see after all these years, you took enjoyment in my death."
"Is it wrong to enjoy the little things? How else am I to stay sane when I've been bound to the Devils soul? But I. . . I just don't understand how you could be so careless."
"Careless you call it? I live for these moments Deenie. And careless isn't what I would call this."
'Then what would you call it?"
Bobby inhales deeply, and exhales.
"Let's just say I'm two steps ahead of Mammon. . . Even if my wife betrayed me."
Bobby steps into the light. His suite turns into scaly red skin. Horns grow from his forehead—his skin pales. Eyes blood red.
George's eyes boggle wide, "Laura betrayed you?"
Bobby smirks,
Georges feels a little upset at that. As in one hand, he knows how Laura feels. After all, when the man you love claims to be the devil—it's not as if a mere mortal can just walk away.
"Yes. And while I admit it caught me off-guard. . .She will pay her due in hell. Because when I'm done with her. . . It will be as if I broke her soul into a million pieces."
Bobby takes a drag on his cigar once more.
"Did I say something wrong?"
"I just. . . Don't go too hard on her. I understand how she feels to be tricked by the devil."
" Enough. You were never tricked. I gave you a choice. Now did you find anything in the Book of Everything to help solve our little problem?"
George walks towards an old chest made of fur and bone, locked by a large onyx black lock. He drops to his knees, reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a small key. Effortlessly, he opens the chest. Dust everywhere.
"Firstly, you tricked me, and you know it. Because at the time I made the deal, I thought it was with Bobby Vellet. Not once did it cross my mind that I was making a deal with the devil himself."
With two hands, George reaches inside the chest and pulls out an overtly large textbook wrapped in leather binding ten times older. George steps back from the darkness and heads towards his desk.
"Secondly, no I did not."
The way he says it that reminds Bobby of a young girl on her first day of high school; unable to look up at the professor she accidentally bumped on her way to class.
Bobby takes a long drag on his cigar, exhaling black smoke.
And to George, the deal he signed five years ago—still feels like yesterday.
* * *
In Calla, there is one long strip on the south side of the Island. It's home to posh bars, a quiet red-light district, and Bobby Vellets Casino. So, when the hammer came down, and the Judge ruled Bobby Vellet a victim of a terrible event; instead of the mastermind behind a deviant plan, Mr. Deen was shocked to find a letter addressed from Bobby Vellet on his doorstep. Inside the letter, Mr. Deen was told to meet Bobby at the North Side of the Calla island at a small Pub known as the Fish n' ships erected in the late 1600s. The history of the bar is well known to Calla citizens, as rumor has it there is a small basement dwelling that leads out to the beach where Pirates used to smuggle booze onto the island. The perfect place to discuss what actually happened the night of Eric Deens and Katherines Vellets murder.
And Mr. Deen couldn't resist.
***
The small pub door opened and with a Jingle, Mr. Deen stepped inside. It's shortly after seven. The bar was small, cramped, and yet cozy. And to George Deen, he felt like he was stepping back in time—pirate music played in the background, numerous kegs lined the walls, and an old stove top fireplace in the corner of the room kept the air nice and dry.
Bobby Vellet waved him over from the farthest booth Bobby could hustle—easily twenty or so feet from the main bar; no doubt to be away from the regulars who drank like a sailor no matter the day or time of the week.
Mr. Deen approached the table, took off his coat and sat down across from Bobby who chose the attire of a grey t-shirt and jeans. He smelt like cheap beer.
On his lips, a drip of booze, no doubt from the two beers that stood on the table in hands reach.
As soon as Mr. Deen sat down—a waitress came over with a plate of hand cut fries. She set them down and walked away.
"Mr. Vellet,"
"Please, call me Bobby, also, fries?" he asked, taking a big handful and shoving as many fries as he can in his mouth.
"Let's cut the shit, Bobby. Why did you call me here?"
Bobby, munching down on his fries, can't help but chuckle.
"What's so funny? You think my sons murder is a joke?" Mr. Deen stammers—extending his hand across the table—tears welting under his eyes—stopping inches from Bobby's throat.
But Bobby doesn't flinch—he only smirks, swallows his fries, and wets his parch mouth with a chug of beer.
"Your sons murder? I thought the courts said his death was a murder-suicide. Was it not my wife that was murdered by your son in cold blood?"
Bobby Vellet tries to hold back a chuckle but fails—his teeth grips his lips like fangs.
Mr. Deen pulls back his hand and forms a fist, slamming it down on the table. The beers jump.
"Do you think I came here to be laughed at? We both know you murdered my son in cold blood!"
Bobby's face turns again—his joking stature, turning more serious.
"I apologize for poking fresh wounds George. Sometimes I get a bit too carried away, you know what that's like, don't you? Poking where you don't belong?" Bobby takes another chug of beer.
"As I can only imagine Eric got his uncanny abilities to put his nose in places that don't belong from his father, no?"
"Really now?" Mr. Deen answers, wiping his eyes; standing up.
"And here I thought we could talk like men. But here I am being ambushed and lambasted."
"Wait a second Deeny. What I meant to say was I have a proposal."
"A proposal? Another fucking proposal? That's an odd way to start a proposal. You told me if I came here I'd get answers—"
"Yes, yes, answers. Look. I'll tell you what happened that night on one condition—you retire from the force, move in behind my estate, and when I die—you take control of my estate, and in turn the wellbeing of my son and daughter for me."
He halts for a moment.
"You're one of the richest mobsters in the world, yet you want me to take care of your estate after you die?
Mr. Deen grins wide, trying to contain his giggles of disbelief, as he stares down the man who took his own son, and walked away from it. Bobby watches at odds, wondering the thoughts running through Mr. Deens head.
Mr. Deen leans forward, clenching his fists together; wanting to strike.
"You think I'm going to come here, and make a deal with the man who MURDERED MY SON?" Mr. Deen shrieks, his face as red as a cherry; the veins of distraught filling his face and the words of anger dancing around his lips.
"YOU THINK I'M GOING TO MAKE A DEAL WITH THE MAN WHO TOOK EVERYTHING FROM ME? EVERYTHING?"
The bar goes silent, as the patron-turned spectators eavesdrop on the table at the far corner of the room; that of which beloved Bobby of Calla, is talking to a man who've they've seen before. The man who's son was a part of the juiciest murder in a long time.
"Sit. I'm not asking for us to be friends, all I ask is you be a good role model for my kids. I don't want them to grow up into the life I've established—which is bizarre, but I'll tell you, when I die, and my estate goes to them—the world will fall to chaos that even they may find themselves wanting to choose sides."
"Your kids? You think I give a fuck about your kids after what you did to mine?"
Bobby sighs, a free hand rising to his face to clear his forehead of sweat.
"Look. What happened to your son was a shame. But he was no innocent man, and neither was my wife who rode him night after night. I can pay you for his life if you wish, but if he crossed a line and knew the outcome."
George continues to giggle in his seat.
"You think you can just pay for a life? You think you can just write a cheque and make it all go away? Don't you get it—You can't pay for a fucking soul Bobby, you can't put a price on a soul,"
Bobby laughs,
"Actually, you can, but—"
"ENOUGH!" Mr. Deen slams both hands down on the table, the beer bottles fall over, unleashing a pipeline of beer onto the floor.
"You invite me to sit and eat, you propose a ludicrous idea, and yet you still continue to mock me. We're fucking done—"
Mr. Deen turns from Bobby's gaze. He's about to stand when the sound of a click fills his ear.
Mr. Deen doesn't need to hear another sound for him to understand the situation.
He swallows hard and turns back to Bobby who's staring him down with his all familiar M1911.
"What are you going to do? Kill an FBI agent at that? Have you gone insane?"
Bobby shakes his head, waving his pistol towards the seat.
"I've already killed one and got away with it, who's to say I can't get rid of another?"
Mr. Deen bites his tongue—his heart thumps in his chest.
YOU FUCKING MONSTER—
And yet, those in the dining room, at the sight of Bobby drawing a firearm, return to their food. When the man who owns the island is doing business. . . No one talks, and no one listens.
"Look Deenie boy, we had a deal. But now there is no deal. There is a demand. You will do this. And if you don't, there will be consequences."
"Like what?"
Bobby smiles, revealing pearl white teeth.
"I'm glad you asked. I love when people ask. So, let me ask you a question that I'm certain you can answer. When a man die's, what's his worth to the world?"
"I—I—"
"Oh, come on now, Eric used to tell me it was your favourite word, your fucking obsession, really."
George grinds his teeth; feeling such vulnerability, he might as well be standing on a stage naked.
"His legacy,"
"Right," Bobby grins,
"So how does this sound for legacy? George Deen, former FBI agent takes ex-wife and four kids to a cottage up north. Nothing heard for weeks. A random tip caller. Police raid the cottage to find five bodies executed in the back pool with bags over their head. And, the sixth body, yours Mr. Deen, sitting upstairs in the bathtub rotting in a once nice bubble bath. The place where he blew his own brains out. How's that for a legacy? How's that for being remembered?"
Bobby holsters his pistol and extends an open hand across the table.
"So what do you say, deal?"