I kick again. "Oh, I know the one." I pause for dramatic effect. "Fox."
"No." She lowers her voice with caution. "Fuck." I can hear her double-dimpled smile, a cheeky curve to her lips that usually accompanies something she deems as naughty.
After I kick the body the last few metres, it balances right on the lip of the rocks. "I don't know that word," I say, looking down into the pitch-black water.
"It's a swear."
"Like a pinkie swear?" I ask, making the sign of the cross on my chest, wordlessly offering my own respects, before lightly pushing my boot into the wire, finishing the job. The body hits the estuary with a soft splash.
"No, not a pinkie swear."
Stuffing one hand into my pocket, I make my way through the low, dry shrubs, and towards the grey rental car parked on the side of the dirt road. I cringe at it, missing my bike. "What story did you read tonight?"
"Um, the pigeon one."
"Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus? That's a goodin. Did you let him?"
"He'll crash, Uncle Bronson."
"I know. I know. But he looks so sad." Gripping the door handle, I pause to inhale the scent of salty water and feel the hot air tapping my face. Humid and dense, and in every way a classic night in outback Australia. Sicily is similar in many ways. It's in my blood to be in this heat, near the sea. "Hey, I just called to say goodnight." I look up at the sky. Those glowing white dots twinkle akin to the way her star projector does on the ceiling in her room. The image of her at my funeral, all in black, hammers behind my eyes, unwelcome and self-indulgent and pointless. But tonight will go just fine. "Miss your face," I say. "Have sweet dreams."
"I miss facetoo," she says, playing with thetoofor a while.
I laugh, opening the car door and placing one foot inside. "This ugly mug?"
"Not ugly." She tsks. "Handsung"
"Handsome?" I grin, her word filling me with pride. "Where'd you learn that word?
"Mummy," she squeaks cheerfully.
"Well shucks, thanks, Outlaw." I feel my body stiffen as the moment to bid her goodnight looms, feel a roll of tension moving its way up my back, reminding me once again how risky my next plan will be. That maybe it isn't the best idea, not the only way, maybe - Nah. I got this. I force a wide grin so she can hear it. "Do me a favour, kiss your beautiful mummy and daddy for me. Right on the lips."
"I will."
"Nighty night."
I hang up the phone, stuff it into my pocket, and slide in behind the wheel.
While heading straight towards the other side of the river, to a long underpass that connects directly onto the highway, I switch on some beats.
The White Stripes.
The need for a cigar before my imminent dose of adrenaline beckons me. I lean over, fumbling with the glove box, and retrieve the tin. Driving with my knees, I spark the bitch up and suck on it, the smoke swirling into my mouth. I lean my elbow on the door, watching the black road rush by.
After pulling under the pass, between the water and the cement column, I park up and enjoy the last few puffs of my cigar. Flicking the cigar butt from my car, I grab my gun and phone and step from the vehicle. It's go time.
Bronson
Fourteen years old
I watchfrom under the slowly swaying tree as Jimmy, my dad, and four 'uncles' converse in loud burly tones. Sat around the outdoor table with their drinks, cards, and chips all spread across the wooden top, they look as though they are entertaining one another with wit, humour, and reminiscing kind of tones. What sits heavily around them, though, is an invisible entity that is powerful and greedy.
Jimmy always has a smile for us smoothly set into his tanned Sicilian face. He smiles at everyone, in fact. But no creature is more dangerous than the unreadable man who can just as easily smile at a person as he can slice their stomach open and watch their innards pile up at his feet.
One look and there is no mistaking that Jimmy Storm, with his unhurried movements and black suit, completely crease-free and impeccable, is a powerful motherfucker.
I idolise that man.