SMASHER vs. Mafia: A Christmas Special (Part 2)

The full Smasher vs Mafia series is live on Patreon now. Start your 7-day free trial of Dr. No Sleep Premium to binge all three parts today. Cancel anytime, no commitment. Just go to patreon.com slash drnosleep to sign up. That's patreon.com slash drnosleep. The bells at St. Halvard's Cathedral were ringing after the mid-morning Sunday Mass. The priest waited outside atop the front steps to shake hands, give blessings, and hand out flyers to the families that poured from the church doors and moved out into the streets of little Dublin. The parishioners at St. Halvard's looked much as one would expect. The fathers in suits, the mothers in modest dresses, the children pulling off their itchy sweaters as soon as they were outside. There were no obvious clues that most of those men and some of the women were engaged daily in criminal activity and violence of every type. The priest certainly wasn't too concerned and was all too happy to accept the donations and protections of Marade McMurray. Waving as the last churchgoers exited the building, he delivered his final, go in the peace of the Lord to the gangsters without any sense of irony. Most of the Celtic cartel families headed south down the main road, but two of the young men broke away, turning west. Where are you two running off to? Old Fitz called to them. Just grabbing some lunch downtown, answered young Fitz as he and Dermot made their way toward the Odin's Gate Bridge. You can grab your lunch at the pub. His father complained, you don't serve Chalmaine. As they walked, young Fitz glanced down at the pamphlet the priest had handed him. It showed an illustration of a high brick tower with stained glass windows and two bulldozers were sketched to move ominously in from either side. The pamphlet read, save all saints' monastery. Rolling his eyes, Fitz crumpled up the page and tossed it into a garbage can. The sky was gray and a crisp breeze stung their eyes as they walked across the bridge. Young Fitz tightened the newsboy cap he wore, then flipped up the collar of his suit jacket and stuffed his hands in his pockets. Dermot, hulking along beside his friend, didn't mind the breeze in his long orange hair and breathed in the salty taste of the bay through his nostrils. His hands were much too large to fit in any pockets. Once across the bridge, they glanced up briefly at the towering downtown skyline, but soon turned down a modest side street. The city of Grim Bay didn't have so much of a Chinatown as it did a China alley, and red paper lanterns hung above the street, bouncing in the spring breeze, passing by the family-run convenience store, grocers, herbal medicine shop, and mazhong barler. The two men ducked into a little noodle house on the corner. Even bent low and turned to the side, Dermot could hardly fit through the door. Once inside, the cook behind the counter smiled and nodded to them both. Young Fitz clapped Dermot on the arm, then moved to take a corner table as the cook prepared as usual. Dermot, meanwhile, ducked past the counter, down the dim hall and out the back, where he emerged into a small, grimy courtyard between old brick tenement buildings. He was just about to climb up the nearest fire escape when a tiny sound made him look down. From between two overflowing garbage cans, there limped a very small, very frail, three-legged kitten with gunky eyes and matted white fur. Dermot stared at it. Then lowering himself to the ground, he cocked his giant head and smiled. The kitten cocked its tiny head and meowed again. Laying the back of one massive hand down before the animal, Dermot waited patiently. After another thirty seconds, the kitten crept up to sniff at his fingers, then walked cautiously onto his palm. Rising, Dermot gently scooped it up and plopped the kitten into his breast pocket. Turning, Dermot began to ascend the fire escape, not moving up its stairs, on which he would never fit, but climbing swiftly up the outside, moving floor to floor with grace and surprising quietness, like some great ape in the jungle. Upon reaching the roof, he swung his legs up and landed gently on the terrace there, where a jumble of pots held a hundred varieties of flowers. According to his pocket, he removed the kitten, which bit him on the thumb before allowing him to rub her head with a fingertip. To his right, from an apartment on an adjoining building, a window squeaked open. Dermot looked over and there, framed in the window and with a pink flower in her hair, Lotus raised an eyebrow. Really sweetheart, another stray. Dermot gave a sheepish smile. She laughed lightly and climbing out of the window onto the terrace, she dusted herself off and walked toward him. So what should we call this little lady? She asked. Dermot murmured in his throat and nodded at the little cat. Do you mean it's a boy? He nodded again. How can you tell? He shrugged. Lotus, clipped her tongue and shook her head then winked. You and your hidden talents. She was barely five feet tall and when she stretched up on tiptoes to kiss him, he had to kneel for her to reach him, carefully cupping the kitten in one hand and bowing his head to hers. Her lips were soft and cool against his, though he could feel the raised cut where she had been hidden the club a few days before. She lifted her hands to hold his face and as her fingers touched lightly against his skin, he shuddered, not in pain, but in overwhelming tenderness. Breaking away from the kiss, she smiled into his eyes, which were blue as a clear sky. I missed you. She whispered and he chuckled. I know it's only been a few hours, but I wasn't complaining. I like it, having someone to miss. Not everyone has that. He lowered his massive arm to set down the kitten, then snatched Lotus lightly at the waist and lifted her into the air. No. He said, kissing her again. They were interrupted by the kitten, which began attacking Dermot's bootlaces. It began to rain, fat drops striking the back of Dermot's head. He bent to set Lotus back on her feet and nodded toward the apartment window, but she shook her head. I don't mind the rain. She said, it's good for the flowers. She turned to the corner of the terrace, where she laid out bricks into a ten-foot square and planted grass within. It wasn't much, that tiny lawn, but it was theirs. Taking his giant hand in her small grip, she led him over to the grass and giggling, moved to sit in the middle. He squinted at her, mouth twitching. She sniffed a laugh. Who cares if my dress is dirty? He grinned. At first, it had been difficult for Lotus to read the meaning in Dermot McMurrow's expressions, because she had assumed there must be a vocabulary to it. Private words, subtle grammar, subtext and secrets. But no. His reactions and emotions were simple, straightforward, for those who bothered to accept his truth. It was everyone else who was difficult to read, Lotus realized, with their lies and their judgment and their games. There was nothing secret about Dermot, and that was his secret. As he lowered himself onto the grass beside her, his long legs poking out the end of the square, she looked at him and she saw him. All his quiet strength, his deep-set pain, his desperate desire to love, she saw it all, so plainly on his face. Others saw something else in those features. They saw ugliness, something to be laughed at, something to be feared, a monster even, a creature of violence. She knew about all that, of course. She knew the things they made him do, all his life, just as she knew how easy the world found it to judge a person based on their circumstances, instead of their heart. She got enough of that judgment down at the club, and before working there, she had gotten it in a brothel down the street, and before that, back when she was just a little girl, in a brothel in Shanghai, the world was so cruel. And yet, she said, smiling as the rain fell harder. You are so beautiful. He looked at her, and blinked water from his eyes. Must be the rain. She pushed him gently on the chest, and he lowered himself onto his back in the wet grass, shivering as the chilly wetness soaked his shirt. Glancing over, he saw that the three-legged kitten had found a dry spot beneath a potted bush and was fast asleep. Lotus curled up beside him, her head against his neck, her hand on his chest. He wrapped the fingers of one hand around her shoulder, and while the spring rain fell, they held each other, and their little patch of paradise lifted up high above the slums of hell. That's where Shopify comes in. 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But after spending the afternoon on the roof terrace with Lotus, it was impossible to zone out. His heart was too full. His skin, it still tingled with the echo of her touch. And when he breathed in through his large nostrils, beyond the grimy scents of the van, he could still smell her hair. Clean, floral, like a garden. The van pulled to a stop and Dermot shook himself, trying to throw off the emotions to empty himself so that he might go through the task at hand without caring, without snapping. The rear doors swung open and Dermot wiggled awkwardly to get his legs out, then stood. They had parked in a gravel alley beside a large house. The first stars were coming out and crickets were chirping from a nearby tree. The driver of the van, a one-armed gangster named Mooney, looked around cautiously and up at Dermot. This here's a bookie's place. He's a fucking cheat. Samar wants to send a message and… Dermot glared down at him and he raised his one hand and mocked surrender. He don't want to know. Gotcha. No worries, smasher. Just follow me. They moved around the corner of the van and headed toward the back of the house. But that's when young Fitz came walking up to meet them. I'll take him in, Mooney, said Fitz. You wait in the van. Mooney shrugged. Sankt yourself. Dermot's eyelids twitched in concern, but young Fitz turned and started slowly back into the shadows. Once they were out of earshot of the driver, he whispered, Something's up, man. It's Cormac. He's getting paranoid or… I don't know. They turned the corner of the house and headed for the back door. But Fitz stopped just outside of it. Dermot? He's… He's ordered me to keep an eye on you and report back. He knows something's up. In the darkness, Dermot's nostrils flared. I know. And I'll only tell him what you want me to, of course, but… Well, you know he's weird about the women at the club. So I think maybe you should stick around a little Dublin for a few days. A grumble rose in Dermot's throat and at his sides, his bulbous knuckles popped as his hands squeezed into sledgehammer fists. Fitz sighed and moved to open the back door and ushered Dermot inside. His huge body beginning to tremble, Dermot ducked through the doorway, entering a sitting room with the lights off and the blinds drawn. Across the room, another gangster was waiting beside an open door with the light on within. What's up, smasher? Mad gals in the basement with him? The man said, shifting aside. It marched forward, head bowed, eyes blazing. Flying down the carpeted stairs, he found himself crouching in an open-plan basement. A leather couch, faced an entertainment center, a foosball table sat in one corner, and on one shelf, board games were stacked besides crates labeled Christmas and baby clothes. And in the middle of the basement, under a fluorescent light, a family of four was gagged and tied to chairs. Cormac was standing behind them. One foot bouncing anxiously. His zig sour in one hand, now with a suppressor screwed onto its threaded barrel. Two more of his men stood by a table in the back, going through the paperwork. Hey, smash! Said Cormac. Pretty straightforward job tonight. We need you to- Keeping his eye on his brother, so as not to look at the family, Dermot swept across the room, seized the head of the first gagged figure in both hands, and crushed it. What the fuck? Dermot was in a corner at Cormac, jumping backward as blood and brain splattered his jeans. Put the fucking bag over them first and- The three others and the chairs were all screaming through their gags. Dermot moved to the next family member and slammed his fists together on their skull. Christ smash! Smash or growled in his throat and snatched his hand over the next head. It was smaller than the first two. What's gotten into you? Dermot flexed his fingers, feeling the skull creak and crack under his grip. From the head, a high, child's groan issued through the gag. Dermot flinched, and before he could stop himself, his gaze flicked downward. He saw a light brown ponytail with a Minnie Mouse hair tie poking out between his index and middle fingers. He gasped and released the girl, stumbling backward. What the actual hell, smash? Said Cormac, shaking his head. The girl continued to groan as blood poured down her face and ears. Cormac raised his pistol and shot her in the back of the head. Turning, he aimed at the last family member, a young boy, and shot him. Dermot began to hyperventilate, his chest swelling and head striking the popcorn ceiling with each deep gasp. Cormac sighed, lowering his smoking pistol. What a fucking mess. Seriously smash? What's gotten over you lately? With an enormous effort, Dermot slowed his breathing, and bearing his teeth, his gaze snapped up to his brothers. Cormac cocked his head. What? You don't want to be here right now? No shit, we have a job to do. Get control of yourself. Dermot's jaws tightened, teeth grinding. At his sides, his hands were shaking, dripping blood into the carpet. Cormac shook his head. Sometimes I wonder, man, how someone so strong can be so fucking weak. Smasher awoke from a nightmare late the next morning. Sitting up on the two mattresses laid end to end in his sparsely furnished room above the pub, he rubbed his head in his hands before remembering the night before, and looking down, saw the red stains upon his skin. It was always so hard to wash away all that blood. The floorboards creaked as he got to his feet, crouching to avoid the light fixture. Sunlight was streaming in through the window, and he could hear a few voices chatting boisterously from downstairs. Tomorrow was St. Patrick's Day, and the busiest day of the year for the bellygub. Yawning, he pulled on his boots and opened the bedroom door. One of the wolfhounds was standing in the hall outside and looking up at him. He smiled down at the dog, but from his mother's office, he heard the druid call to the animal, and it turned with a whimper, ears drooping, and sauntered away down the hall. Dermot heard the office door close. When he came down the pub stairs a few minutes later, dressed and with his hair brushed back and tucked behind his large ears, he saw a few locals at the bar, and young Fitz's sister Jenny, standing on a stool to hang a chain of glittering shamrocks across the room. Why, Mr. Garret, said old Fitz, should I say, afternoon, fancy a fry up? Dermot shook his head and walked through the pub and out the front door. He stood for a moment on the sidewalk outside, blinking in the dazzling sunlight, though the breeze was crisp. His stomach growled. He was hungry, but not for a fry up. He wanted noodles. Crossing his arms to hug his hands around his chest, he trudged down the road in the direction of Odin's Gate Bridge. Lotus would be home again today, tending to her flowers on the roof. Monday was her day off. Fitz had been right, of course. Dermot would be wise to stay away from now, to let things simmer down, to be patient. But he couldn't. He had been alone so long, invisible in the dark, and now he had been seen. He couldn't help it. The light called to him. Lotus, she called to him. White as coffee from the grocery store often taste dull or flat. In many cases, those beans were roasted months ago and have spent weeks sitting on shelves, slowly losing the oils and aromas that create a rich cup of coffee. Freshness makes a real difference. That's why at No Sleep Coffee, we roast every batch fresh to order, so you experience the full flavor, aroma, and quality that coffee is meant to have. Right now, get 30% off any 12-ounce bag store-wide with promo code NoSleep30. Limit one bag per customer. This sale ends March 25th, so don't wait. Visit NoSleepCoffee.com and pick up a bag of fresh, premium roasted coffee today. Again, that's promo code NoSleep30 at NoSleepCoffee.com. As soon as Dermot turned into the street with the red paper lanterns, he knew something was wrong. It was too empty, even for a Monday. And as he glanced around at the shops, faces that had been looking out through the storefront windows suddenly turned away. Senses tingling, he sped up, his boots pounding the pavement. He came up to the noodle shop, but saw that the blinds were closed and the open sign had been turned off. Dermot's mouth went dry. He looked up at the buildings rising around him, but he didn't know where her apartment was. He had never come in through the front door before. Lunging into a run, he charged down a nearby alley that led to the trash-filled courtyard behind the restaurant. A gate and a high chain link fence ahead was locked, but Dermot didn't even slow down. Headbutting through the gate, he hurried through the courtyard, leapt, and grabbed the second story railing of the fire escape. He climbed with ferocious energy, bending the bars and rattling screws loose until he reached the top and jumped up onto the terrace. His boots crunched down, flattening the blossoms of a dozen snowdrops. The flowers lay scattered on the rooftop, their pot broken on its side. Dermot stood frozen on the spot, his gaze panning from left to right, from the grassy square over potted plants to her apartment window, which was open, the curtains fluttering. Swallowing, he moved to the window and, leaning down, peered inside. The room was dim and completely empty. No furniture, no kitten, no lotus. Dermot let out an agonized groan and swooned. Staggering backward, he turned, his vision spinning wildly. His eyelids peeled back and his pupils wide. He felt afraid, so afraid. The fear was a storm inside his head and from its swirling depths, a sharp crack of violent anger like lightning flared within him. He ran back to the edge and jumped, spinning midair and grabbing the fire escape railing. It snapped under his grip and he plummeted, 60 feet, then punched down with both fists, crushing the lowest level of the fire escape to slow his wild descent. He landed with knees bent, shaking the ground, then shot forward with a grunt, hurtling down the alleyway. Several people screamed and fell backward to the sidewalk as Dermot sprinted from the alley and charged down the street. His long legs flew and his great fists beat the air as he came up to a busy intersection and raced through the traffic. A bus honked and two distracted drivers got into a fender bender as he charged past. Reaching the bridge, he sped across it. Salty wind in his hair, his furious eyes fixed on his target ahead, on little doubling. In the lusty shamrock, Cormack's hands were shaking as he pulled out a cigarette and it took him three tries to get his lighter to work and light it. Sucking in a shaky breath, he closed his eyes. He stayed up the last two nights, trying to keep everything together. The club, the docks, that new Russian crew, those fucking feds, Tippet and Cohen, and the goddamn parade tomorrow. Not to mention, he exhaled, trying not to think about the early hours of this morning and opened his eyes. Oi! He called out, seeing two of his men starting up a game of pool in the back. Did I fucking say it was late time? No! They get back to work! Two broken urinals and the men's room clogged with pubes and piss, and the goddamn VIP lounges need a deep clean. Now! Setting down their pool cues, the gangsters hurried off without complaint. As it was midday, the club was closed, brightly lit with fluorescent house lights, and the only music was the buzz of a vacuum and the clinking of clean glasses being put away behind the bar. Cormack blew a line of gray smoke at the ceiling, feeling a migraine start to blossom behind his eyes. Then, from the front hall, he heard the door swing open, and a scream, and a great deal of stomping. Okay, okay, okay, fuck! Cormack muttered to himself, taking another drag on the cigarette to try and study his nerves. He had to get this over with. Dermot marched from the hall and across the room. Hey, Smasher! Said Cormack, trying to smile. I was wondering when you'd get here to... Dermot whipped one great fist at a table in his way, sweeping it into the air. It struck the wall and burst into pieces. Cormack flinched. As his younger brother stomped up to him, Cormack saw young Fitz and a couple of his guys hurrying in after. One of the men reached for his sidearm, but Cormack caught his eye and gave a quick shake of the head. Smash! Listen! Cormack began, but reaching him, Dermot leaned over, breathing hard, his lips bared. Well... Cormack inhaled. Just take a deep breath, okay? Let's talk. Well... Cormack exhaled, then nodded. Okay, I'm not gonna bullshit you, man. That girl, we... Well, we moved her to another club up the coast, okay? I don't even know where, seriously. But that's how it works with the dancers, you know that! Dermot leaned closer, his throat rumbling. And, frankly, you don't need any distractions right now, alright? None of us do. But there'll be another time, and other chicks, and... He's lying! Shouted a voice from above. Cormack froze, his blue eyes wide. Dermot looked up at the balcony. Whiskey Blaze was standing outside the club office in a hoodie and sweatpants, hugging her arms around her chest. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying. It was me, Derm. She said, her voice weak. It was me that told Corm about you two. I'm... I'm sorry, but I never thought... Her lower lip began to tremble. They... they... Dermot's heart seemed to turn to ice in his chest. And then... they just threw her in the trash, Dermot! Cormack winced, clasping his eyes shut. Oh, Jesus. Whiskey sniffed and wiped at her eyes. They said, Fangle will swim by later to take her away, cause they'll need space in the dumpster for the fucking parade. Dermot stared up at her. His expression blank, his body numb. The club melted in his vision, as tears filled his eyes. Cormack tried to take another drag on the cigarette, but his hand was shaking so hard he dropped it. It hit the ground with a tiny puff of sparks. Oh, God! Oh, fuck! Smash! And now, his blue eyes. Eyes just like Dermot's. They were moist, too. I... I swear, man. I didn't want to have to... Dermot's right arm snapped forward, clutching his fingers around his brother's face. Cormack seized, kicking out. Behind them, men cursed and pulled out their pistols. Dermot turned and marched forward, his boots stomping on the lit cigarette with a hiss, dragging Cormack by the head while his brother fought back, swinging both hands uselessly at Dermot's wrist. His screams muted by Dermot's wide palm over his face. Get the fuck off him, man! Screamed a gangster behind them, cocking back his pistols hammer, but Fitz yelled, Hey! Hey, don't shoot! Dermot is my son, you idiot! Dermot did not respond. Reaching the employee's only door, he kicked it open and marched down the hall, past rooms stocked with sex toys, packaged drugs, and military-grade weapons. As he reached the club's back doors, Dermot adjusted his grip on Cormack's head and his brother gasped for air. Smash! Just fucking listen me, man! Dermot bucked through the doors and walked out, into the sunlit parking lot behind the club. Dragging Cormack beside him, he marched straight toward the dumpsters and spotted two drops of glistening red on one of the containers. Don't look in there, Smash! Don't look! Reaching out with his left arm, Dermot seized the plastic lid. Please, Dermot! Dermot ripped the lid off its hinges. He stared down, into the piled garbage. There, amongst soggy cardboard and glass bottles, lime wedges and soiled paper towels and used condoms, he saw her hand, pale and limp. A rat was chewing through her thumb. Dermot stared at the hand, at her fingernails, and the little mole on her wrist, his vision drifting in and out of focus, breathing slowly, completely numb. Fucking hell! Wined a voice behind him. Ah, fuck me! Why'd you have to do that, Smasher? Fucking why? Dermot blinked, turning. He saw that five men now stood around him in the parking lot. All of them, except for Fitz, had their weapons drawn, and aimed at his chest. He was your fucking brother! Said Mooney, the one-armed driver was holding a revolver in his only hand. Dermot blinked again, and, cocking his head, he slowly lifted up his right hand. It was empty, but dirty. Lots of pulpy blood was dripping down his fingers and his wrist, and there were tight clumps of black hair and bits of bone and scraps of skin. Some of the skin was pale white with freckles, other bits dark brown, and a diamond stud earring was stuck in his palm. Dermot looked down by his feet. His brother's headless body lay in a puddle of red, which was spreading slowly across the pavement. Cormac's pistol, it was still in his holster. He hadn't gone for it. Dermot, said Fitz very softly, My friend, listen to my voice. Can you hear me? Dermot's face, finally moved, cheeks flinching, lips trembling, a growl rising in his throat. The four men with the pistols crept a little closer. Dermot inhaled through his nostrils, exhaled through his clenched teeth. Bowing his head, he turned his narrowed eyes to the nearest gunman. Hey, now big fella! Mooney whispered, his finger tightening on the trigger. Let's not make any sudden movements and... Dermot made a sudden movement. Spinning as he dove sideways, he snatched the gangster's wrist and yanked. The whole arm ripped free with a pop and spray of blood, and before Mooney's scream could even exit his gaping mouth, Dermot had ducked low, another gangster's bullet slicing the air above him and launched forward, punching the second gunman in the chest, blasting him off his feet and through the windshield of a parked car. The final two attackers tried to back away as they took aim, but Dermot pounced upon them, seized both their heads in his hands, and smashed the heads together in a bloody burst of shattered skulls and gelatinous brains. Straightening up, Dermot flicked the filth off his hands, then turned back to Mooney. The man was wriggling warm like across the pavement, shedding blood and tears and snot as he tried to get himself under a truck. Dermot took one step toward him, and setting his right boot against Mooney's face, he leaned in and crushed the skull flat. Walking back to the dumpster, Dermot swallowed, took a deep breath, then reached inside and gently pulled Lotus out. Her body was so very light. Rigor Mortis hadn't sat in yet. She was limp like a doll. Like a doll with cold skin and sweet smelling hair, and four bullet holes in her chest, and one just above her right ear. Dermot cradled her against his chest, squeezing his cheek against the top of her head, tears falling from his eyes, even as he ground his teeth and every muscle in his body clenched. You know the order to do that. It didn't come from Cormac, said Young Fitz. He would pull off his cap and now held it over his heart. He never would have done that unless the order must have come from. You know. Dermot's eyes went hard as iron, as he pictured his mother's face in his mind. An all-consuming wrath filled his being, he nodded. So, what are you gonna do? Dermot McMurrow turned, his giant shadow stretching across the crumpled bodies on the pavement, and carrying Lotus with him, he headed out of the parking lot and into the shadowy alleys of the city, growling one word as he departed. Growl.