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2
Maddox
Ienter the Mark Twain Dinette, my hands tucked into my pockets, and the whole place falls quiet. Men look at me fearfully, while women stare wide-eyed. These people know my face, but they don’t know why I’m here.
I can’t blame them for being scared. The Mark Twain Dinette lies in Braddock territory. When we’re in town, nothing good comes with us.
The dinette’s fine; old-looking, but I assume that’s by design. I shuffle through a row of tables to one in a back corner. The light-blue wall is stained brown from dirty fingers, and the table hasn’t been cleared. I sit anyway, in an uncomfortable black metal chair.
A young blonde walks over shortly after I sit, and lifts the empty glasses and plates from the table. She looks at me squinty, trying to hold her own against a Braddock. A fool’s errand, but I won’t be a Braddock much longer, after the King’s offer.
That’s why my old man wants to meet here. At least, that’s the only reason I can come up with. A few days have passed since I spoke with Bruno and word spreads quickly among our people like flies to shit.
“Two coffees, no cream, no sugar,” I order without her asking.
“Right away,” she says with a huff. The people of Hannibal fear us, but they sure as hell don’t like us.
The waitress, whose nametag is blank, runs a damp rag over the table to wipe off breadcrumbs and whatever smudges linger from the previous diners. The cloth leaves streaks across the lacquered tabletop. I wipe it down with a handful of napkins, until it’s shining under the low-hanging light above. The waitress doesn’t take kindly to my actions. Her face scrunches up in annoyance, before she storms off. Goddamn, sometimes I hate being a Braddock.
My father arrives shortly after I did and before the coffee comes. He gets the same reaction from the people in the diner. They’re silent, eyeing him up and down. My father’s face tugs up in a sickening grin at their fear.
“What’s everyone looking at? Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” he says with a snicker.
What a fool.
If one of these people were to start feeling brave, they could have us both killed. Fear leads to irrational behavior. They’re already under his thumb, and he’s playing with fire by calling them out on it.
The chatter starts up again, but there’s too much leaning in and whispering among themselves. They’re talking about us, I’m sure. The Braddocks have crawled out of their hole and shown their faces.
Why in a dinette among the civilians? There are so many restaurants and bars under Braddock’s control that we don’t have to play these dangerous games. But, this is probably some kind of power play; an attempt to rein in the masses. Keep the people in line, make sure they’re scared, and they won’t think we’ve gone soft in our absence.
“Maddox, my boy!” Father’s looking cheery. The last time I saw him, all I got was disappointment and booted from the house – hell, booted out of the family.
“Congratulations are in order.”
“For what?” I reply. The answer is simple. He’s talking about my engagement to Isabella Romani.
The thought of it still blows my mind. Why me? Out of everyone in The King’s army? All I’ve done is shoot a few people. That’s no reason to think I’m worthy of holding his throne.
“Don’t be modest. Word’s already moving around town. You’re going to be a married man soon,” he laughs.
I don’t speak.
“Damn it, boy, why do you look so glum? Don’t you know what this means for us?” he asks, finally sitting down. He shuffles and eases into his chair, cracking his neck from side to side. “When’s the big day, anyway?”
“Next Sunday. Just enough time to prepare for all that’s set to go down,” I tell him.
Things move fast in our world. I can’t help but think that Bruno knows something he’s not letting on. His desperate urgency, to see Isabella and me married, leads me to believe he’s landed in some hot water and this marriage is his escape clause if anything happens to him.
I didn’t question Bruno any further. Even if this was just part of some greater scheme to deliver a child into this world, I’ll do as I’m told, because that’s what I am. Always a follower, never a leader.
A new waitress brings our coffee. She’s older, with crow’s feet and leathery skin. She’s wearing a pink dress, with buttons up the neck. Her name tag reads Bethany. They’re wise to keep the hot blonde away from us.
“Anything else, Gentlemen?” Bethany’s shifting her weight from one foot to the other, nervously.
“No, I’m good.” I wave my hand.
“Get me bacon and eggs,” father replies.
