The Innocents by Nathan Senthil (autobiographies to read .TXT) 📕

“If!” Joshua pinched Peter’s ear and shouted in it. “If, Grampa. Remember that word, you senile dildo? If?”

“Leave me alone, asshole.” Peter jerked away.

The receptionist tried her best not to look up at them as she pushed the forms forward. “Please sign here, gentlemen.”

As Peter signed, Joshua said, “If we fail, I want my son to carry on my legacy. One Chase or the other, we’re gonna bring this motherfucker down.”

The receptionist passed each a key, still avoiding eye contact.

* * *

Joshua was vaguely aware of his consciousness returning. His eyelids were heavy and grainy, brushing against his eyes. His lumbar region stung, and he reckoned his body was covered in sticky sweat. The room was cool, but the temperature under the blanket was stifling.

A creak made him open his eyes. The noise didn’t seem to have come from his bed. Aggravated by the lack of comfort, he threw the blanket away and kicked it down.

And his heart froze in terror.

A form, resembling a three-headed hellhound, stood in front of him, snarling, its red teeth sharp and rugged. Unable to grasp the image his retina was feeding him, he rubbed his eyes. The sight returned along with the reasoning, and the Cerberus transformed into clothes hanging from the wall hooks.

Releasing a huge breath, he looked around the dark room. A shadow under the door moved ever so slightly, and the wood creaked again.

“Peter?” Joshua called out.

The movement halted and the shadow disappeared. As if it had never been there.

Bemused and wondering if he had dreamed the whole thing, he fell back onto the damp pillows and dozed off.

Chapter 22

April 07, 2019. 3:21. P.M.

Joshua had slept until late afternoon. Grumbling why aged bodies took longer to recuperate, he shambled to the bathroom. He took a Spartan shower and dressed up before rapping on the adjacent door.

Thirty minutes later, Peter and Joshua were cruising on the main road, their destination being the DPD.

Driving through downtown without hectic traffic made Detroit look weird. At this time, the city center back home would be replete with exhaust fumes and road rage. Maybe he got so acclimated to the hurly-burlies of NYC all day every day that his cognition was biased.

His head wasn’t in the right place, groggy from the fiasco the previous night.

“You came to my room?” Joshua said, momentarily looking at Peter.

“I did, around eleven this morning, but you were snoring like an elephant. So I left.”

“No, before that.”

“I didn’t.” Peter regarded Joshua, with worry on his face. “You don’t look so good. Didn’t you sleep well?”

The mere mention of sleep made Joshua yawn. “Tossing and turning the whole damn night, I feel restless.”

Peter said, “It’s evolution, you see. Can’t help it.”

“Evolution?”

“Tell me, when is someone in danger?”

Joshua sensed it was a rhetorical question, so he bit. “When?”

“When sleeping and shitting. Your reflexes slacken, which by definition means your guard’s down. So the reptilian brain overcompensates by constantly being alert. That’s why tourists feel like they miss their own toilets and beds, when in reality, they miss the secure familiarity they experience in the inviolable habitat of their own toilets and beds.”

“Hm.” He mulled over his friend’s point. Or Joshua was really being stalked.

The view outside transformed from city to ghetto. The change was painfully obvious—buildings turned from marvelous edifices to skeletal geriatrics.

Joshua couldn’t stop looking in the rearview. Call it paranoia, not hallucination, but he always found a leery vehicle lurking ten to twenty meters behind. A motorcycle this time, not an SUV.

Even with all the distraction, they reached the precinct safely in under twenty minutes.

While pulling over into the parking lot, Joshua noticed a rusty tandem bike chained to a horizontal pole on a brick wall in front of them. Drawn above it was some old graffiti. Joshua squinted and tried to fill the missing sections and make out the shape. Then the design jumped on him.

It was the American flag, but with only five stars.

* * *

The precinct was in no way different than his 122nd. In fact, it was not unlike any other office place. Except three things: guns on the hips of residents, tattooed guests cuffed to benches, and offhand use of bigotry slurs, which would lead to your termination of employment in any other setting.

The cops themselves were mostly black, about 80% of them. Back in Staten Island, the cops were mostly white. However, Detroit had a ratio of 80:20 black to white, while Staten Island’s ratio was the same inversely.

Anyhow, the cop they met, the one who had been helping Joshua, was white. Captain Wheeler ushered them into his office.

After the pleasantries and obligatory lame jokes were out of the way, Joshua began by confessing that he felt like he was being followed. It surprised Peter as much as it did Wheeler.

“Why would anyone follow you?”

Smiling apologetically at Peter, Joshua said, “We talked to Roman.”

Wheeler tsk-tsked. “Now why would you pull Maverick shit like that?”

Peter said, “So what? He’s just a regular scum. We thought he’d spill some beans.”

“He is a capo regime. You know that capos are made men and made men take a certain oath?”

Omertà. An oath of silence, which most carried to their graves. Joshua hadn’t thought of that before. The Mafia thing seemed so old to him even though he grew up in New York.

“If they’re tailing you, losing them is impossible,” Wheeler said. “With Instagram and Facebook Live, they don’t tail with just one vehicle. They do it as a gang.”

“That’s pretty advanced of them.”

“Yes, they’ve been known to use high-tech gadgets, hack phones, and emails, too.”

“Or maybe he’s just losing it.” Peter grabbed Joshua’s shoulder. “Roman refused to help. Cool. But why follow us?”

“Good question,” Wheeler said, and they