Roy De Spiro represents half of the homicide division. Cheapskate. Vain. And pious. At least in their own fantasy. Unlike the boys in Vice, they lack the luxury of monthly bonusses and daily private parties. Their suits, either black or navy, were monotonous in tone and frowsy in odor. Some like to claim it the smell of justice, though it ain’t more than the scent of quiescent glazed with sugar coated doughnuts and coke.

            Like the other successful officers and detectives, he is in the payroll of the rising star of the underworld. Keaton. No first name known. De Spiro was taken aback when a telephone rang followed by the whisper of his number two. Some officers might view this call as an honor, but he isn’t expecting to be one of the over asserting and labile tempered officers who have their lives ended in the cold water of the nearby river with a bullet hole decorating their forehead. “De Spiro.” Few droplets of cold sweats have drenched into his collar before a smoky low voice filled in the other end of the phone.

“I know who you are, Roy. And I know that five people lay dead in a store uptown. A tip for you, that’s the same crew as before.”

Roy took a drink, “Thank you, Mr. Keaton, though isn’t it in the uttermost priority of the robbery department?”

“It was. Until the five dead men are my people, plus a fugitive. I’m certain that information slipped away.”

“Almost. Until you graciously reminded me. We’ll look into this.”

“I don’t want him in custody,” a glass of water wetted his throat, “Kill him. Reason a shootout happened, and I’ll fix a promotion and commendation in a few weeks.”

“That’s not the problem, Mr. Keaton.”

“How’s Bella doing?”

Silence filled the two men’s conversation as images of her daughter’s graduation and party started clouding his mind, “Yeah. Consider it done, Mr. Keaton.”

***

“Watch it! Off the road!” the young woman is half startled to find a man in dark leather jacket and a pair of shades pulled her backwards only inches from a fast-moving motorbike. It’s only after he got her up she noticed the thin beard growing around the bottom of his lips. “You good?” he asked whilst picking a handkerchief out of his pocket, wiping her dust stained blouse with it. The woman didn’t answer and slipped a mocking laugh instead. “Do you mind?” the man asked, leaving some distance between his fingers and her blouse. “All’s good. It’s just, who still brings a handkerchief these days.”  The man nodded, the woman laughed, glad a gentle charming smile was his reply.  

            “You realize you’re not obliged to do this, right?” asked the man. The woman left a half smile as an answer, apoplectic of the long waiting hour. “I’m sure. Don’t give me that look. I have to do this. You sort of saved my life,” the woman’s words raised in tone. “Just making sure. Cause if you’re playing, I’m not eating,” jested the man. “Cheapskate,” mocked the woman before kissing her wine filled glass only to be stopped by the man’s lean fingers, “That’s enough. It’s almost a bottle now. Look, lunch is coming,” the woman darted towards the pantry, “Oops. How did it move there?” asked the man pointing the filled glass and bottle now standing on an empty table behind him, dying to hold his laugh underneath his words.

            The wine bathed beef and its complementing sautéed vegetable filled colors back into the man’s oceanic eyes. He now realized how stunning the woman sitting in front of him is. Her dark brown almost straight but more wavy hair accompanied her sharp hazel eyes. Her cheeks are thin of mascara, only a single layer of light red powder covered her Mediterranean skin. Her pink thin lips are equally simple yet still charming. From what he’s seeing, the white blouse under the blazer and the heels only mean one thing, she’s either in law or business.

“Where are my manners. We haven’t had a complete introduction. It’s Dean. Dean Oliver. And from what I see, you look like the one entrusted to meet clients at noon.”  

“Smartass. You’re almost right, that’s another day’s agenda though.”  

“My sincere apologies,” the man took her palms and smoothen it with his beard, “Can this hand’s owner share me her name?”

“You’re a romantic.”

“In literature,” the man’s words were cut short.

“Romantic is defined as the outburst of powerful feelings. Probably just a mere wannabe poet picking off quotes from Wordsworth and Yeats.”  

“Not bad. Unfortunate I’m fonder of the Americans.”

“Robert Frost?”

“Included.”

“Alan Poe?”

“Favorite.”  

“A man of great taste. Bella. That’s my name.”

“Gorgeous,” the man emptied his glass, “Back to topic. Who’re you meeting then?”  

“My father. Our weekly lunch schedule.”

“Woops. Better get myself going,” the man hasn’t stood up fully when Bella pulled his jacket down.

“I like you.”

“Excuse me?”

“Basically, stay. Meet my father. If he likes you, maybe we can hang out.”

A man in his deep fifties walked by, grabbing a chair from a nearby table. His suit, dark brown and shabby, revealed his slender body and bony arms. His eyes, half slanted carved with wrinkles around it, were fatigued. Dean knew the man is Bella’s father when he now knows the origins of Bella’s divine looking nose and lips.

“Nice to meet you, Sir,” Dean said, offering his hand.

“Oh,” the old man said, half startled, “You’re an acquaintance of my daughter?”

“A friend, father,” Bella corrected.

“A man is a mere acquaintance until he proved himself.”

“Of what? Loyalty? Taking a bullet for you first?” continued Bella.

“Alright. That’s it. I’m sorry,” the old man altered his view towards Dean, “What’s your name, young man?”

“Dean, Sir.”

“That’s a nice name. You know who’re you named after?”

“Dean Martin. The singer.”

“Splendid! What’s your profession if I may ask?”  

“University professor, Sir. English literature.”

The old man popped his lips, “Frankly, I’m quite impressed. The name is Roy De Spiro, but for someone like you just call me Roy.”  

“That explains the thick books in your bag,” said Bella, denying to be exempted from the conversation.

Dean was taken off course, “Books?”

“Yes. The thick leather ones,” Bella’s voice lowered down, worried to offend Dean.

“I think what’s the man’s reaction implies is never to peek one’s belongings, dear,” said Roy.

“Oh, the books. Yeah. Right. That’s from the library. I’m making an anthology.”

Roy moved his chair closer, his eyes shooting a sharp and hungry stare, “On who?”

“American authors. Transition from Twain to Hemingway.”

“You have to include Steinbeck,” said Roy, “He is the voice of the Depression Era.”  

“I will, Sir. He’s in my shortlist already.”  

“Glad to hear,” Roy nodded his head vigorously, “Now who’s ready for a second round of meals,” said Roy as he snapped his fingers asking for the menu.  

Bella smiled, sliding a paper across the table. The words are written in an ink deprived pen, forming a short sentence. Father likes you. Come to my house this Friday.  

***

            A one storey brick house surrounded by a Buick, Bentley, and Chevrolet, became the centerpiece of the land. A forest, connecting with the state’s land, laid on the left. The house’s interior is thick with the odor of leather and created a half intimidating half mystical sensation as the brown carpeted floor and mostly leather furniture aren’t helping the dim lighting. A living room laid on the left of the main door, whilst a sturdy locked door laid on the right. Dean wasn’t interested to find what lays behind it. The only thing urging him to walk further through the door is the recently polished bar and plenary rack of liquor, plus Bella who sat with a bottle of whiskey around her hands in the living room.

               Dean pressed the lime whilst pouring some vodka into the shaker. The strong vodka flavor should cover the lime’s sour taste. Besides, the mojito should cool her throat, agonized from the half bottle of whiskey drank.  She emptied the glass in two gulps. Finishing her drink right before Dean flooded his whiskey with water. “You don’t bother to wait,” Dean said, half mocking. “You don’t bother to rush,” she said, a vanquishing smile carved on her face. Dean raised his brows and threw his glance towards the woods outside.

“I didn’t think you’ll make it,” Bella said while patting the couch.

“Who doesn’t love surprises,” Dean said, filling the space beside her, “Where is your father?”

“He should be here soon.”  

“He went home early?”

“Only every Fridays. He arrived at three sharp on Fridays.”

“Oh,” Dean sipped his drink, “How’s life?”

“Three days after our meeting?”

“More or less.”

“Dull. Yours?”

Dean emptied his glass, “You know, one Indonesian poet used women as his inspiration.”

“And are you that guy?”

“Maybe,” Dean smiled.  

“Come here,” Bella said, pulling Dean’s head towards her lap, “Who are you? Really?”

“Elaborate.”

“Unique words. Almost foreign dialect. Yet definitely not Southern or Hawaiian. Are you foreign? I actually think you’re foreign.”

“Half Irish half Italian. Involved with the mafia. I promise you though, I’m not in it.”

“Isn’t that one of the characters of Goodfellas?”

“You’re adorable,” Dean slid his right thumb from Bella’s eyebags down her cheeks and sat up, “Never trust authors. Common sense. They fantasize for a living. Who says their different characters won’t conjoin their lives some day?”

“Coming from an actual writer, you surely are an honest man.”

“I’m not a writer. Literary critic is more top notch.”

Bella smiled, preparing a laugh, called off by the sudden opening of the door.  

“I’m sorry I’m late, dear. The traffic is hellish,” Roy hung his coat and looked at Dean, “I see we have a guest.”

“Drinks, Sir? You seem to be addressing a highball?”

“The bar is open tonight, father. Dean created the best mojito,” said Bella.

“And not only mojito,” Dean winked Bella.

“Spot on, kid. A highball. Impress me!”

“Getting too old for the heavy ones, Sir?” blending the two small cups of whiskey with club soda.  

“I imagine to be in my daughter’s wedding, son,” Roy slumped his body on an armchair, “Thankfully it won’t be long enough.” Dean and Bella exchanged deep and wide smiles.

“A highball and another on the rocks for me,” said Dean bringing two glasses.

            The clock was striking four when the two men finished drinking. Bella has said how her father will invite a man hunting if he really likes him, it reveals a man’s true nature, placing beasts against beasts. Roy was pretty astonished when Dean went with the Winchester. After today’s guns, the Winchester’s purpose has become limited to a home decoration. “Reminds me of the West,” said Dean trailing Roy out the door. “You’re a West Coast guy?” asked Roy curiously. Dean shook his head, “Only too much Western movies,” he tightened his saddle, “3.15 to Yuma is my favorite.” Both men started galloping their horses.

            The silence of the woods was pierced by the flowing conversation of the two men. Perhaps that became the exact reason all deer ventured the mountains. “You have befriended guns before,” said Roy. “Served few years in Nam. Marine scout sniper,” answered Dean. “That’s funny. Found some years too in Nam as a lieutenant. Hue is the worst,” Roy’s words were answered by the sound of Dean’s bullets scraping the metal chamber. Bang. Birds flew away as the branches rattled, throwing off autumn leaves. “Deer. Dead. Right there. I say we go home now? Make a nice meal out of this venison?” Roy nodded, still jolted by the sudden gunshot. “Go ahead in the horses, I’ll carry it. My rifle, Sir,” Dean handed his Winchester, “Thanks.”  

            The deer was an easy prey. A missed shot won’t let him run far. His tendons and meat were tender, its veins will let a good number of herbs and wine ran smoothly. Fear entered Roy seeing three missed calls from Keaton. Five messages were sent, he opened them. It’s taking too long. Find the guy. Additional information: experienced shooter, Stanford dropout, rancher family, ex-army intelligence. Don’t be deceived. He is conspicuous of his traits. Roy’s dust covered and rusty neurons started to work, a man of his age could still make brilliant connections between distant details. His forehead hardened, his stare soon followed.

His left hand showed substantial effort taking a cigarette out of his left pocket only to be dropped when a yell was heard. “Roy!” He saw Dean a few steps away with a knife in his hands, “Duck!” Without thinking much, he dropped to the ground. Dean’s knife flew through the air. A pool of blood filled the hole made by Roy’s boots. “You didn’t tell me there are wolves here,” said Dean offering his hand. “By the way, Cambodia is much worst,” Dean tied the dead deer to his horse’s saddle and lit a match, “Here you go. Sorry you got to drop one, Sir.” Dean jumped on his horse and tightened his grip, “It’s getting dark. The blood will attract more. Let’s go.”  

            Roy didn’t give any eyes to his daughter, directly locking himself in his study. “What happened?” asked Bella, her words thick with perplexity. “I don’t know, gorgeous. Still shocked. That’s obvious.” “What did you do?” the perplexity in Bella’s words were overcame with worry. “Wait in the kitchen. I’ll tell you there.” Soon enough, two laughs filled the kitchen. Laughs, chuckles, and cheap cheesy pick-up lines stolen from the 1950s or even older. Their words stopped. The smell of herbs floated through the air. “I’ll call father,” said Bella. “It’s alright. I’ll do it,” Dean pulled Bella’s arms, exempting the distance between them. “Oh no, I’ll finish it whole,” reasoned Dean, walking away towards Roy’s study.

            “Trust me. My feeling towards your daughter. It’s sincere, Sir,” Dean’s words have half succeeded in pushing the coffee glass on the table. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to overlook.” Dean paced towards the leather chair across Roy. “I am a bad man. I was a bad man, Sir. I can’t deny that. And I won’t make stories of how your daughter changed me,” Dean pulled out a cigarette, waiting for Roy’s nod. “I’m sorry. Sure. Go on,” Roy covered his face with his wrinkly palms. “The bookstore heist was my last. Killing them is the only way out,” Dean rotated his chair towards a painting on the left wall, “A new life. My family used to have one of those. I think they’re right. No matter how far you go from home, home will be part of you.”

“Enlighten me. The first time I saw you. That’s right after that heist,” said Roy slowly revealing his face.

“That explains the classic books in my bag, doesn’t it?”

“Then explain the college professor trick?”

“Simple. I’m a Princeton dropout. I actually did study literature.”  

“At least you’re an honest man. Tell me about the books?”

“I returned it. It’s with Keaton. You see, all I want is a new honest life. I’m not into the wealth and blood.”

“Keaton still wants you dead.”

“And you’re tasked to do it.”

Roy sighed.

“Or they’ll hurt Bella.”

“Stop.”

“Keaton is paranoid. He can’t accept his men’s retirements without thinking they’d just go to witness protection. His men that retired? They won’t make it more than a week.”  

“Now you sound dumb for feeling you can outrun a guy like him.”

“I don’t. I’m just staying under. Enough evidence for the Feds and enough bad blood in the family, time will work the rest.”

“Then the streets will bath in blood?”

“No. Don’t underestimate. We’re not coke dealers. Cooperate with the Feds, cut a deal, all good.”  

“That’s a long game.”

The door opened, Bella leaned her head in, “Father, Dean, come on. The food is getting cold. And there are guests in the gate. Three sedans and two SUVs I think,” she went back out.

“Kid, I didn’t call them.”

“I know, Sir. How’re you liking your given car and house?”

Roy displayed a puzzled look.

“Come on. They gave important police officials houses and cars for a reason. Backup plans when they go rogue.”

“Why?”

“Because you, Sir, are not expendable.”  

Roy looked down.  

 “They aren’t street goons. Who do you think are Keaton’s hitman? Frat boys and hood wannabees?”

Roy bit his lips.

“Ex-militaries, private securities, that’s who we are talking about.”  

“Then let’s try,” Roy walked towards the door.

“Halt,” Dean pulled Roy a few steps back, “Think. Straight.”

“You’re a nice young man, Dean. Not drop college and you’ll fit Capitol right in.”  

“And you’re a decent person, Sir. Pleasure to know you.”  

“Will you say goodbye to Bella?”

“Maybe.”

Roy staid in the room. Dean walked towards Bella who’s standing beside the kitchen table, “I wish I can taste it. Smells good.”

“Where are you going?”  

“Meet the guests.”

“Let father.”  

“No. He’s tired.”

“The food is cooling.”

“Eat without me, gorgeous.”

Dean stood in the house’s mouth, his hand gripping the handle, “Dean,” he replied Bella’s gaze, “I think I love you.”  

“I think so too, gorgeous,” Dean smiled, “One more thing?”  

“Yes?” Bella laid on Dean’s chest.

“What are these past few days?”

“I can’t describe.”

“Then let me show.”

“Huh?”  

Dean caressed Bella’s cheeks softly, ending at her lips, unclasping it with his thumb, and closed it back with his lips. Dean stepped back and stared into Bella’s hazel eyes, “Detailed enough?”

Bella smiled, laughed, then nodded.  

“Don’t remember me too much, won’t you?”

Dean exited the house towards the cars outside, leaving Bella in a confounded look.