Red Fox

Apparently, the price for a human life is $20,000 - at least in America.

What a crazy country this was, he thought to himself, as he threw his shovel over his shoulder. He looked down on the freshly filled grave in front of him that contained the corpse of James Frankcourt, happy and alive a few hours prior. Forty-something, white, one of those men that always carry an air of unclaimed superiority about them. Smug in life, foolish in death.

He slid his hand into his inner coat pocket and took out Paddy's journal. His hands were still covered in dirt but he had to do this now or he would forget. His brother was very particular when it came to his note-taking.

He opened the little black book and wrote:

James Frankcourt.

Then he erased James Frankcourt from the world, with one clean line.

James Frankcourt.

Whenever he crossed out a name, he felt like the book had power. That he was a servant of God and whoever needed to die would die. It was foolish, of course, but he liked the idea of being chosen for something. It made his days less grim.

He left his equipment back at the little shed on the outskirts of Forest Hill Park. It took him almost three hours to get back to their headquarters, as he took a longer route to avoid any collision with the DiMaggio boys in little Italy. Their line of profession was a messy one and Cleveland was a messy place, but it had become home.

As he turned into McCart Street he saw the first rays of sunshine slowly illuminating the streets of West Cleveland. A few of his brother’s men were standing outside their house, smoking. When they saw him they shouted: “Ah, Foxy! You still have some blood on your shoes.” - “Look at him, crazy eyes, haha.” - “Madra Rua!”

Madra Rua - what a ridiculous nickname it was. It meant "fox" in Gaelic. They said it was because of his flaming red hair and wild eyes but he knew that it wasn’t just that. They had chosen to call him "fox", or rather “Foxy” because it was the only word they could still pronounce in their own native language. Anything more unpronounceable and they would have choked on their own spittle. Men with shamrock tattoos, who considered themselves Irish but had little more left of their Irish heritage than he did royal blood. Foxy didn’t care for them, but that didn’t matter. He left the politics to his brother and focussed on the task of filling his little journal of death.

Paddy was waiting for him in his office at the back of the house. He was at his desk, writing something in one of his many journals. As soon as Foxy closed the door behind him, he asked.

“How did it go?”

His brother wasn’t one for wasting time.

Foxy threw the journal onto Paddy’s desk. His brother grimaced when he saw the dirt and bloodstains all over the white pages.

“He didn’t have the money.“

His brother looked at him. “What do you mean, he didn’t have the money? He had it yesterday.”

“Somebody took it.”

His brother slammed his hand onto the table. “Fuck!” He breathed heavily and Foxy saw that he was pondering.

“It couldn’t have been the twins or the Gully’s. We had eyes on them. It had to be that whore that was with him last night. Denis saw them.”

He looked at Foxy. “Find out who she is and get me my fucking money back.”

Foxy didn’t move. “Do it yourself. I did my part.”

“You know I have a meeting tonight. If we leave it till morning, whoever that whore was will be long gone.”

When Paddy saw that his brother was showing no intention of moving, his face softened and he looked at him resolved. “Please, Mick. We need that money to sort out the shit with the Owen twins.”

Foxy looked at his little brother and sighed. “Fine.”

He went over to him, grabbed the little black book from his hand, and was about to leave the office when his brother added: “Mick, I want them both, the money and the woman.”

Foxy left without saying another word.

—

He waited until it was dark again before he walked over to her apartment. Although her place wasn’t far from their corner, Foxy took his time.

When she opened the door he was already inside, waiting for her.

“Stupid of you to have stayed so long,” he said after she turned on the lights.

Maggie got a fright and almost dropped the little brown bag she was carrying. She looked around to find him sitting on a chair close to the window, smoking a cigarette. When she recognized him her eyes blazed.

“Jesus Foxy, what are you doing lurking around in the dark like that?”

She walked into the small kitchen area that was only separated from the general living space through a small grey kitchen aisle. She put her bag on the counter and took off her coat. She was wearing a simple navy dress that emphasized her slender curves, curves, that had not aged as much as they should have.

“You know why I’m here,” he said.

She did not look up, keeping her hands busy by clearing up dishes that she had left in the sink the previous night.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Cut the crap, Mags. We both know you have the money and I'm here to collect it.”

“Look, Foxy. I don’t want any trouble. I don’t have your money.” Her face was calm but he could see her hands shaking. The motion was faint but he knew her well. He had held those hands many times.

“Did Paddy put you up to this?“ she asked.

“Does it matter?”

She had finished packing away the dishes and was wiping the kitchen surface now. She was trying to look busy. “Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about.“

“I found Frankcourt.”

She stopped in her movements. For the first time, she looked at him.

“Who is Frankcourt?”

“The man you screwed last night for $20,000”

“I wouldn’t-“

“We both know you would.” He put out his cigarette on his heel and flicked the butt out the window. He stood up from his seat and slowly walked over to her. The only thing between them now was the kitchen aisle.

“Where is the money Mags?”

“I’m sorry Foxy- Mick. I can’t give it to you.” She stared at him. Something had changed, her eyes were defiant, her body completely still, like an arrow placed on rest, waiting to be released.

He had never seen her like this before. But he knew she was in real danger if she didn’t listen to him. Hell, she was in real danger already.

After a short moment of silence, she said, “I have to leave, Mick. I have to leave this place and him.”

He knew what she meant. His brother was as charming as he was ruthless and he wasn’t one to let go easily of what he considered his. And he considered Maggie to be his, as he did his older brother.

“You don’t need $20,000 to leave him.” He paused, unsure if he should say the next words, knowing that he would regret them. “Give me the money and I’ll help you get away. He’ll have enough to worry about with the Owens. It will give you a headstart.”

She looked at him intensely, trying to see if he truly meant what he said. He didn’t like it when she looked at him like that.

“I am going to the West, Mick. I need that money to build up a new life. You heard what they say about the land there. Thousands of leagues of pasture lands with rivers as wide as they are long and the sun shining down on the growing crops. I want that, Mick, I want all of that.”

She was being foolish. “What about the life you have here?” he asked.

“And what would that be? Bound to the most notorious gangster in Ohio? He is a loose cannon and you know it. I hold no love for this city and you and your brother's McCart Street Gang!”

She took a deep breath and leaned on the aisle. Her gaze drifting through him.

“I was ten when we left Ireland. We fled from poverty and illnesses, from being locked up and beaten in our own country. But I’ve just exchanged one cage for another. I want to be free Mick - more than anything, I need to be free.”

She reached for his hands.

“Come with me”, she said. She looked at him, pleadingly. Her dark eyes penetrating, the freckles of her nose, proof of a budding spring.

He looked down at her fingers in his hands. They were white and not without the odd scar and rough bit of skin. They were hands that had worked all their life. He considered it for a moment, truly. But the moment was short. His family had created an empire in this city that was so far away from their own broken country. He would be a fool to turn his back on it.

He lifted his eyes back to hers. “Where is the money, Maggie.”

She shook her head and sighed, disappointed. “I won’t say.” She whispered the next sentence, “I would rather die”, which made him believe that it was true.

“You are crazy, woman,” he whispered back.

She pulled her hands away from his. “No, I am desperate. Sometimes you have to grab life by the balls and pull tight to see if the other side shits out some gold.”

He couldn’t help but laugh.

She realized then that she had won. “You’re letting me go?”

He knew that Paddy would cut off his fingers if he found out. She had balls though, he would give her that. Foxy thought his options through, but not for long.

—

When he left her apartment, thoughts of lush fields and flowing streams infested his mind. He knew he was foolish to let her go. The wiles of women, he thought to himself. But no, Foxy shook his head. No, it wasn’t just that. He liked the idea of defying his brother. It had been too long.

He halted underneath a street lamp and took out the little black journal. His brother would figure out by tomorrow that it was his own wife who had stolen his money. So he wrote:

Maggie Gorman.

He smiled to himself and made his way back to the house.

—

But the book didn’t have any magical powers. The red fox took lives - but sparing one wasn’t the same as saving it.

It turned out that Gus Canty, the stitcher from another rival gang, had been waiting for Maggie outside her apartment the next morning. He had given Maggie short shrift and Foxy found her body the next day behind her building. It was an act of revenge against his brother, as Paddy had killed Gus’ father a few months prior. Theirs was a messy business.

Gus hadn’t known about the money and had so not taken the time to search through all of her belongings, probably afraid that one of the Gorman brothers would find him before he could disappear.

When Foxy looked through her little brown bag he found a book. It was a copy of Jules Verne’s Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. He opened it and smiled. One dollar for each league, he thought.

—

Foxy looked down onto Maggie’s makeshift grave. He sighed and took the little black book out of its usual place in his inner coat pocket.

Maggie Gorman.

After all, he thought, it looked like $20,000 was not the price of one, but of two human lives in America.