Family Knows Best

     Normally, Felix Bailey resided in a medium sized farm house out in the country in the state of New York. He hated the city, the claustrophobic clamor of the crowds, and the thick haze of exhaust permeating everything, the sewer drains overflowing with trash... Felix was a man of order. Everything had its own proper place, even the not-so-proper things. Yet New York City seemed determined to throw any rules of law and order out the window. He hated it.
     However, his work occasionally warranted he visit the sprawling metropolis, which was actually rather small in comparison to the amount of people living there. The work he did was not talked about. The first rule of his job? You don't talk about your job. For some, this would be a humorous allusion to Fight Club, but not for Felix. For him, this was the law of the Family. It was the law of every Family. You didn't have to be Irish, you could be with the Russians or Italians but it was the same no matter what. That was the problem with the entire system. If you couldn't talk about it, everyone knew you were one of them.
     Mostly, Felix didn't get involved in any turf wars. His was an analytical mind that found fighting pointless. The Italians had gotten fat and lazy, comfortable running their garbage disposal racket. When the Russians came over, it had been after the collapse of the Soviet Union, after a collapse of communism giving them all a chip on their shoulder. They weren't only tough, they were dedicated. This made all the difference in Family business, as only the strongest survived. They had recently become disillusioned with their entire country and life, and were now willing to kill and die to protect their freedom; after all, the purge in their country meant Russia was Wonderland, the oligarchy was the Queen of Hearts, and any citizen could be Alice. What else was there for them?
      Then you had the Irish, a step apart from the Italians and Russians. Though many retained a false pretense of religious inclination, it was a massive farce. Anyone who was Irish and gone Family had likely been a witness to Bloody Sunday, or grown up on the stories of it. They were sickened with their God, and with religion in general. They all stuck together to drink away the painful memories, tearing things up. But they were still tough, even when they appeared drunk and brainless. You could bet, no matter what, they were scheming the best way to kick your ass without much fuss or fanfare.
     Felix was involved with the Irish, as his father before him. Honestly, he hadn't wanted to go into the life, but the sudden death of his father had left no other option. It was sink or swim and Felix wasn't about to get eaten by the sharks; he was going to be the shark.
     Driving a ratty blue Ford pick-up truck, he was impeccably dressed in a suit and tie, his briefcase in the passenger seat. The leather seats of the truck were cracked, coughing up stuffing like junk from the lungs. But Felix wouldn't replace the truck for anything. It had been his father's. Filled with the scent of peppermints, the sharp biting kind. James, Felix's father, had always had a peppermint in his mouth when driving the truck or with a client. Felix had taken up the habit. No spearmint for them, that was for weaklings. Anything but the sharp winter's mint was for pussies.
     He had been attached to his father. Then again, he'd only had the one parent. Though he vaguely recalled Melissa Prescott, he had been five at the time of her death. She was the reason his first name was very certainly not Irish, but his father had always maintained that he should feel honored to be graced with a name from her. After his mother's death, his father took a turn for the worse. James became volatile and much more violent in business dealings. He climbed the ranks. Instead of a lowly accountant for the Family, he'd risen all the way to top loan shark. He'd kept a little black book of secrets and names, and wore an old wristwatch on the same hand that broken so many fingers. He had caused bloody noses, broken legs, arms, beaten men who simply couldn't afford to pay back what they borrowed. Never killed anyone at least, so that was something. During these regular bouts, he often yelled at his son, "See?! This will be you someday. This is the life, boyo. It's the only one you'll ever get." He hadn't believed his father's sentiment at the time, he wanted to go away to law school and put away the criminals his father associated with. He didn't want to learn how to cheat at card games, didn't want to learn how to con good people and bad people alike.
     Then James had died at a Marti Gras party gone wrong. At 22, Felix had been forced to leave his dreams behind and was working with the Family as his father so long ago predicted. He was a prodigy. Though new to the game, he had absorbed so much from the time spent with his father, that he was already one of the best. He brokered the best deals, dealt out the fairest and most brutal punishments, and kept the Family's affairs in order. The strong-arms respected him, the top dogs were pleased with him. This was why they gave him such leniency in keeping up his father's old estate. They let him keep the truck and drive it around as long as he looked like a professional upon exiting the vehicle.
     Now, Felix sucked on a peppermint and tapped his left hand against the steering wheel as he drove, the long ago broken wristwatch of his father on his wrist. He had a meeting with a budding group of Irish mobsters who wanted to make their own score. but the current ruling Family had no room for that. This city was their city, and no other group could screw them over. So, Felix had been tasked with arranging a deal. Already, the meeting place was set up, the young man headed out to meet them.
     He wasn't sure there would be trouble. These guys always wanted to prove how tough and strong they were, sure, but why would they push him around? True, he was a loan shark, and most thought they were weak in muscle. Except, Felix wasn't. He had an extensive training regimen and kept a healthy diet in order to avoid such issues. Though his muscles were not grotesquely bulging and large, they were well-formed and strong. Lean. Tough muscles. Any trouble could be circumvented quickly by his own strength and skill in fighting.
     After navigating the painfully congested streets of the city, he pulled his beat up truck to the curb of a large house in a nicer district of the city. A place where people could actually afford the ridiculously priced homes. Stepping out of the truck, he grabbed his briefcase and popped a fresh peppermint into his mouth. Walking up to the front door, the man he was meant to meet appeared. Colin O'Toole.
     Colin possessed fair skin, and a carrot crown of orange-red curls. He was an older man, dressed in his own suit and with a Virgin Mary on a chain around his neck. Smiling with artificially bright-white teeth, he greeted Felix with a hand outstretched.
     "Felix! Good to meet you finally."
     "Likewise," Felix said, meeting the man's hand with his own. Felix didn't talk much, a part of the game. Keep them guessing and stay an enigma. When he did speak, people sat up and listened.
     Before Felix could stop the action, Colin pulled the handshake into a hug, similar to how the macho Italians proved rank. This wasn't how the Irish did things, but Felix wasn't going to let it shake him. Not even when he felt the tip of a pistol press into his vertebrae at the mid-spine.
     "What are you doing O'Toole? You mess with me, the entire Family is going to come down on your head." The two men remained clasped together in a hug that was turning more and more into a death embrace.
     "But you'll still be dead. See, my boys think you're the reason things are running so smoothly around here. The reason we have no opportunities to speak of. You gotta go."
     Colin had pulled away a fraction to speak those words to Felix, loosened his grip, and Felix capitalized on the opening. With an efficient grab of the man's upper arms, he thrust Colin away while turning. This threw the gun off-target, and it went wide to the side. Felix used one hand to fit a punch to the man's gut before slamming his wrist, causing the small and tender muscles to release without intentional thought. The gun dropped and he kicked it away before hefting his briefcase and bringing it down to bear on the man's bent over form. He went for his head, not his back. This way, the hired muscle would be out of commission for a few hours instead of minutes.
     Turning, he eyed O'Toole who had fallen into shocked silence. Pulling out his cellphone and dialing in a select number, his eyes remained fixed on Colin. As he began relaying the betrayal to his superiors, Felix sighed internally.
     This had never been the life he wanted, but it seemed to be the life he was stuck with. The only life he'd ever have.