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Bruno finds him, in a cubicle at the mens room at King Crimson’s.The man is built tall, with muscles to match. Nothing overstated, but they’re there. Definition in his arms especially. They are arms belonging to both the artist and pugilist. They rest neat about his chest, folded over the wound gaping there.He dares not dwell; Bruno casts his glance to the neck, to the jaw, those elegant angles. To where he easily imagines soft lips, flush with purple, rather than the mass of sutures that lace together bruises of a similar shade.Whoever did this was meticulous about it.
But, not so, further above.
Bruno follows the line of a fine, roman nose, to the moment of disturbance. One of his eyes had been gouged out - much more messily than his mouth - his silver tresses designed to cover up the scene.
What had been left behind, however, stares skyward; in its subtlety a picture of abject horror, reflecting that of Bruno’s as he tries to choke back a sob.“Hey–” a voice, soothing as it can muster, carries up from around his wrist, “quit gawking, kid. My eyes are up here!”From beneath his bangs, the violet eye tattooed there, blinks a rare show of emotion that slides down, mingles with the tear already on Bruno’s cheek.“...or, at least, one of them is.”
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“You see,” Bruno continues, “I never really felt like I belonged, not even after meeting the others - no, let me finish - can you blame me? Polpo recruited me as a child. A child. Then I did the same, for right or wrong. Of course I kept my distance.”A sigh, worn weary, from years of defeat.“Okay— but… you didn’t answer my question,” Leone reminds, quietly, “why the-”“The sphinx? Well. I guess I could see myself in the creature, somewhere. A mixed-up kid hidden away, potential unleashed when provoked, when absolutely necessary - taking no pleasure in their gruesome task. Ever. I was no more fit to be a mobster than that poor thing was to be a monster! Funny, how those words are so similar-”“Not really-”“Anyway, you said the gang needed an adversary, and you needed a get-out clause. Win-win. —what’s wrong, Leone?”“That’s… that’s really sad.”Instinctively, Bruno sinks deeper into the cuddle his husband’s offering.“I suppose, but I know you won’t go around telling anybody. That’s why I told you the rest. Because I trust you.”“Should hope so.”
(It’s muffled, by the way Leone’s chin nuzzles into his husband’s hair.)
“So, why the-”“Substantial bosom?” / “Giant tits?”They speak at the same time, and Bruno can’t stop setting free a genuine chuckle as Leone unfurls his hands from the cupping motion they'd made.
“Guess I just like tits.”A nod.“Fair.”
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He, like always, had given Abbacchio what he paid for. And, like always, Abbacchio had paid more than asked. He had paid over for a paltry dose of cuddles and hair-brushing! Comfort, the kind that is supposed to come after the fact; the kind Brown Sugar has never been privy to. Not on the receiving end, anyway...However, what follows is not like always.
Knowing what he does now, of Abbacchio’s story, Sugar sits opposite and says nothing. He allows the client that moment needed to gather together the contemplation of his guilt, in his own special way.The usual.The two men are at an impasse. One of them is so full of longing that he doesn't dare move. He sits patiently. Does as expected.
The other, just watches. The night watchman looks at their laps, the prostitute looks at him.
And the caravan is deadly still. It's only a hush of wind twinkling through the chimes on the wooden door that disturbs the silence.
It stays that way for a while. Until Abbacchio looks up.
Somehow, he can’t be sure of when, he had moved closer. His little finger rests against Brown Sugar’s. A whisper-light connection, a desire, invisible, edging him forward.Their eyes close around the same time. Their noses brush and, with the prostitute statuesque obedient, it’s down to Leone to make the first move. He presses his lips to Sugar’s, gently at first, testing then treading the water, as he makes consent again with his little finger. A nudge, a soundless plea, before Sugar kisses back.
It’s innocent. Almost virginal.
Neither man’s first kiss, and yet - despite their hunger - they are so shy with one another, each lost in his own contemplation, until Leone pushes forward with his tongue.Instinctively, the other parts his lips with a sigh. One pent up from since he can’t remember when, a sigh which dares, then drowns within the night watchman’s current. He sighs in turn.“Oh, Sugar-”“Bruno,” the prostitute corrects, tone echoing within their union, “please. Call me Bruno.”Leone moans the name as though it is holy, until its wearer silences him with his mouth.
The chimes dwindle as the breeze retreats with midnight.Hands interlocked, Leone and Bruno rest side by side on the bed. They are exhausted, though all they shared was a single kiss.“You kept me waiting so long!” the prostitute scolds, though the last word finds his mouth in an upward curve.His eyes knit with kindly laughter, as he nuzzles closer to his watchman, who responds with a question -
“How much will it cost for me to keep you?”
Brown Sugar laughs still, not quite realising that Leone is deadly serious.
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Saturday 29th July, 1967
2pm
Such occurrences are rare; for them to be off duty the same afternoon; that they had decided to make an occasion of it. The sun is high and shining, but the breeze is kind. The perfect weather for a picnic in the park and a kickabout - the latter of which Abbacchio is currently destroying Buccellati at.“You’re getting slow!” he calls, the jab thrown between cupped hands, “not one past me yet!”True. Leone had saved every attempt made to infiltrate his goal - made makeshift with empty beer bottles stabbed into the grass - but there was one thing he hadn’t banked upon.How foolish it is to challenge a gangster.“Really?” said gangster shouts back, a playful musicality to his tone, “we’ll see about that.”
It happens so quickly, the brief run up and sweep with inner foot, that all Leone registers is the rush of wind as the ball flies his way.Perhaps it's the shock.
Perhaps the kick really had been that hard.But either way, the officer is down. So quickly horizontal, only the flare of sunlight and afternoon clouds skirting the blue that’s suddenly in his sightline.
He hears him first.“Are you alright?”A question carrying genuine concern, as well as the slight inflection of burgeoning laughter.With only the slightest flex of his shoulders, Leone peers up. Catches first the sight of Bruno heading his way, then the ball, rolling slowly back toward him.“Still a save…”
That does it. Whether from relief or Leone’s joke, it seems Bruno feels content to allow himself to free the funny side. It fritters out, before advancing into a full-on belly laugh as he stands over his friend.“Hey!” barks Leone, “not enough to twat me in the head with a football, you’re laughing at me now?”Though, he’s really not that mad. There is something wonderful about Buccellati’s laugh. He thought that the first time he heard it, and still does now, even when it’s at his expense.“In jest, not malice,” promises Bruno, “what am I going to do with you?”
Leone can think of a few things. He’s seen the bodyguard from this angle before.
Here and now, however, in a different light, with the sun treating his dark hair to an almost auburn halo, his eyes knit into a smile of pity, the tingle such a sight usually gives has ascended. Keeps doing so, casting a line somewhere within his chest, pulling him up within the lock of Bruno’s axis.
“Kiss me.”
Just behind, Leone can see their companion. Whilst he's on his way up, Connie is on her way back down, and he catches glimpse of her unease on retreat to the blanket, her post guarding their food and what remains of their drinks.The view vanishes with the close of Leone’s eyes, just as Bruno's lips brush over his. The gangster's stance goes limp and he allows himself to fall just short of on top of Leone, lacing his body around him as the two of them share the sanitized sort of affection they are pardoned with in public.It parts, though Bruno delivers an even more chaste version to the policeman’s forehead.“That’s going to smart tomorrow,” he whispers, apologetically.“My ego?” Leone offers, with a smirk, “that’s smarting now.”
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“Do I make you randy?”Interesting question. And, if asked by the individual standing beside him wearing a white bikini, perhaps Leone might have had a different answer.However. As it’s not being asked by that individual, and instead, by a loudmouth cunt dressed up as a cat, Leone responds by yelling with such fervour that it makes the guy jump near out of his skin -
“BOND! I’m James fucking BOND!”…and the little ears Ghiaccio had been wearing fly across the dancefloor. If he could, he would surely raise his hackles in protest.“Alright! Cool it, I got the message!”With Ghiaccio slinking away to retrieve his ears, Leone hears a plaintive tutting in his.“That was a little uncalled for,” his husband observes, “I thought we decided we’d forgiven* him?”But Leone's still reeling.“How many more fucking times?! Isn't it obvious? I have the suit. I have the gun. This is all because of these things!”
He pulls off his new glasses, thick and black of rim, intending to give them a death glare; his eyes crossing in the process.“Nonsense. Plenty of other people wear glasses of that fashion,” insists Bruno, “though, I do suppose Austin Powers helped in bringing them to the forefront."He stifles a giggle. Then he receives a death glare.“And you're too short to be Ursula Andress!"Bruno pouts. Just.
“Tsk, last time I watched one, James Bond wasn't nearly as grumpy! But don't worry…”He smirks, fixing the strap of his two-piece as he starts on his wade back into the sea of partygoers.
“...you still make me ‘randy’.”
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Just around 10 is the graveyard shift. Anyone who's anyone’s already at a club by now, and anyone who’s anyone wouldn’t be spending their Saturday at the all-night one-stop shop.So, that’s why I’m ringing up Cokes and family-size onion rings for the dad who had no sleep, brats circling his ankles as he gazes at me with those “please, it’d be a mercy killing” eyes.If not them, then it’s the winos and worse - the ones who, when you say no, apparently need multiple bottles of nail-polish remover – Yeah. I heard it. I’m a little better than them though, right?Least I’m trying. I haven’t drank since, well… and if I do, it’s only socially, a beer or two with-
….slurrrp.
Hang on. Hold that thought.“Oi!” I yell, in the direction of the slushie machine, “you got to pay for that first!”I turn back and - - Jesus! It was him! How’d he get here?But, somehow he is here. Bruno stands before me, wings folded neatly behind the fur coat he wears - this time, in lurid pink. He opens up his claws and drops a handful of coins on the counter.
Simultaneously, his cup dips, spilling a stagger of raspberry droplets, so vividly sporadic it might well be royal blood.“Hello.”“Hello yourself.”“Don’t fret; I’ve no intention of stealing from you,” he assures, “not a second time. Thank you for the drink.”
He chuckles, as the toll of the till bell drowns out an obnoxious sip whilst I ring up the sticky coins - coins which, I’m sure you’ve figured it out, once belonged to me.“Don’t mention it.”“The meal, too.”
Funny. Slushies are only meant to give you a brain freeze, but my spine tingles all the same.
I really don’t want him to mention… that.
“Not the best I've ever had, I’ll admit - hence this palate cleanser!” but he continues anyway, “and certainly not the easiest.”
The demon makes a point of drawing his tongue along one of his more prominent fangs, to dig out a chunk of viscera.“I suppose the kind of folk you’re accustomed to aren’t the kind to give in without a fight, though.”
No. He’s right there.I worked vice. And… previously at around 10 on a Saturday, I’d be running those punks down the station.
“Mostly unpleasant flavour. Wet leather. An iron bar. Lime green. A scuffle. Escape. Salt. Still sufficient, though."The demon purrs contentedly then, the lashing of his tail thumping against the magazine rack.
“Please watch those.”A snort of amusement.“Like you care,” Bruno says, “you're dodging the subject. What's changed?”
…Let's see. I'm an ex-cop who tipped off the names and locations of perps to a demon so he can reap their souls. It's a bribe. A bargaining chip so he won't take mine. I'd say nothing’s changed, I'm still terrified and still being a pussy about it.
Taking the coward’s route. Like always.
“Y’know, for an asshole, he wasn't without mercy. He cried out for his brother right at the end… I almost felt sorry for him.”“Stop.”“Alright," he shows his palms, "I understand. Our deal is over so soon? Is it time to collect?”
…
No.
“Very well.”
Swift, though not quite as swift as before, the demon approaches the door. It jingles, but he hovers, half-in, half-out, and he takes another swig.“You need to remember you're in a unique position. I gave you a choice. Use it wisely, Leone Abbacchio.”With a claw, he pushes his sunglasses further up his nose, before he's gone.
Jangle.
A choice? Ha, a choice! Delaying the inevitable is more like it. Soon as I run out of options, or catch up with my conscience, it's time for last orders.
The way I see it, there's only one choice.
Whatever way the story's told, Leone Abbacchio is doomed.
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“We sail today.”
Leora realises then, how easily heartbreak can be distilled into three little words.The next three are even worse.
“I love you..."
More devastating is how much she means it. A truth so fundamental that she rings her fingers up in the soft cloth of her sailor’s collar; an action, a distraction, to still her emotions.The sailor doesn't say it back. Not yet. No, rather Bruno just looks at her, seemingly in disbelief as his heart hurries to catch up with her lips.
He replies with his. A lingering peck to her cheek - the most innocent kiss they have ever shared! - Leora realises, laughing gently as he offers her tears his sleeve.They hadn't said it before, circumstances dictated they shouldn't.
“...I love you too.”
Yet, Leora already knew. Knew he did. Definitely knew that she did.The next kiss is one of fervour, like the rest that had come before, as though; now their confession was known out loud; they had been reset to the beginning. To the way they found each other, many months ago, rocking back and forth in time, like the tide against the moon.
“Come with me,” urges Bruno, “my house is only small, but we can fill it with love, and— and it's by the sea! Once the contract is done, we can sail away together! We'll-"
But Leora shakes her head. The pain that anchored her since her youth insists on driving her desire and wanderlust down, to bury them deep as her dreams.
One truth is already too much this morning, and outside the windows of the tavern,
the sky has turned a deeper shade of red.
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“You're laughing at me.”“No!” Bruno protests, though his voice quirks up regardless, “I'm–” he surprises himself, “-smiling at you. I thought you were catching up on the news. I didn't expect to find you watching cartoons.”“I'm watching The Simpsons,” Leone corrects, hot about the collar. Like it makes a difference.
The TV hums; how it paints the hotel room with a 1990s glow! Bruno hovers in the doorway. He'd only come back to get his flask, but-
“The characters are funny.""Which ones?""Well... there's Bart and his friend, and the clown... and... oh! And Marge!”“Well, I'm not surprised you like
her,” Leone says, smirking at the protest that follows.“I just think she's nice!!”“Of course you do.”“And Mr. Twinkle, like on Narancia’s shirt!” Bruno continues, with a sage nod, "Mm. That's a cool shirt. I always say so when he wears it.”“Yeah, you do, but I thought that was just you being ni- wait, who the fuck is ‘Mr. Twinkle’..?”“...the…dad..?” offers Bruno, his pitch cartoonish in itself.
Leone gives him a flat look.
“You haven't got a clue, have you?” he says, patting the cushion next to him, “c’mon. Sit. Learn.”“I have to go to the gym-”Violet eyes give him the up and down. Followed by a satisfied tut of similarly-shaded lips.“Nope. No, you don't,” insists Leone, “you're staying put and watching cartoons with me. That’s an order, capo.”
“...alright.”
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We had gotten comfortable enough around each other to negate the need for personal space. Such a thing is a rarity whilst on tour anyway, so it was of little consequence when I pushed my way in whilst Leone was in the bath - in the bath, and smoking, of course. His favourite way to wind down, just himself.
I'd wanted to check the mirror, the umpteenth time that day, and it treated me to his observation of my actions. Leaning back, he took a drag, the exhale of which set free an embittered laugh.
"You ought to get them to do the other eye too," he said, "save us a fucking fortune on make-up."
His humour's always been like that. Not quite as dark as to be gallows, but biting all the same. But there was concern there; a watered-down version of the kind he'd shown in an attempt to dismiss my assailers - only to end up being jumped himself.Of course, for Moondust, it was out of their adoration, and the hands they threw were akin to Jesus's lepers; reaching, begging for a glimpse, a crumb - anything to be perceived by their idol.
"I guess," I laughed too, "it baffles me how they can't recognise me still as your manager...""Nobody cares for the wizard," shrugged Leone, "just the wonderful things he does. Cookie's causing quite the stir, though."
From the next room, I hear my voice crackle on the hotel room's tiny speakers. It's surreal. I had only made the record for a bit of fun; 'Cookie', the persona to go with it.
Cookie would join Moondust sometimes on stage, and the two of them would do a riff on ‘duelling banjos’. Vocal trills. Posturing. Duelling egos more like.
We would give each other equal share in being the victor. On the nights I won, Moondust would drop to his knees and simulate fellatio on Cookie's guitar strings. I couldn't play that guitar a lick. But Leone had certainly given me enough practice on how to play out my reaction...
Therein lay the problem. Leone and I were treating the industry as our own personal playground. An abuse of power, in the most innocuous way.
His more... vocal fans were young. Those who'd grown up with him were used to his bullshit by now, but the young ones were incensed that anyone dared try to steal the spotlight away from him. That's why they clocked me at the stage door. Why I'm dabbing wet toilet paper under my eye, why there's a patchwork of bruises on my arm, a cut across my nose.It’s a worrying picture.
“...you’re letting them get too close."I remember saying it so quietly. Unaware, then, of how prophetic it was to be.Leone just slid further into the tub, leaving my single to refrain.
“ Cherry smile, living for midnight Give me nicotine kiss and goodbye… ”
“Love, when you sing, you sound just like a baby goat.”It’s true. I did.
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When he wakes, Leone Abbacchio becomes aware of two things.One. That he had just experienced the best sleep of his life - the genuinely restful kind, free from his usual nightmares, the ones that replay all the worst things he had done.Two. That he is surrounded by spotted white fur, dense and soft to the touch. The sphinx is curled around his cage, and Leone deduces their dulcet purring had lulled him into such a rare slumber.
Three. Three things, Leone Abbacchio realises.The sphinx is gigantic. Lithe of form, but pure muscle, every sinew meant to strike, to kill. Four powerful limbs footed with thick, sharp claws, sharper than Leone’s finest swords. Their head is human, but their mouth is lined with feline teeth like pocket daggers. But–
Even since Leone was brought here as their captive, the only form of biting he's had from the sphinx was from their choice of words.
He must look confused. Coldly, the sphinx takes observation of him, peering down into the confines of the cage.
“There was a snowstorm, so I had to shelter you,” they say haughtily, “you would have surely been swept away by it. And you would be of no use to anybody as an icicle.”They flex a wing, then settle; torso quaking with an innermost grumbling, the start of that somniferous motor once more.The third thing: dressed to kill, the sphinx may be, but in actuality, Leone knows they are just a big pussy cat.
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Friday 6th October, 1967
The Downtown club, 10:45pm
Occupying the floor is a young woman in a long dress. It billows loose against her form, a red velvet waterfall as she dances. She's seemingly mesmerising, more than accommodating and welcomes anyone into her sway.Everything happens so quickly. Somebody swoops in, assuming the position to lead. She, presuming his innocence, moves along with him, her bag plucked nimbly from her shoulder. Swiftly, two more join the dance - this dance that now consists of five; the woman, the assailant, two police officers and the man who had orchestrated this whole affair, just with a nod. Omaggio apprehends the perp, drawing him towards the exit, whilst Abbacchio speaks with the woman.
"...wasn’t that a little risky? What if he’d tried something?”“Quicker work for you this way. Don’t worry!” Connie assures, “there’s always a contingency. He’d have run a mile if he thought he’d mugged off 'Buccellati's girl'. And if Buccellati caught him…”
Over her shoulder, Leone spots him; Buccellati sits in the alcove, accompanied by two of his team - the blond, and Connie’s sister - they are in high spirits about something, but their ringleader’s smile is tainted by concern in his eyes. Though it seems he’s just glancing toward the dancefloor, absently swirling his champagne, the officer knows, whenever they’re concerned, his intent’s fixed upon them.Always.
“If he caught him, he wouldn’t have been able to run, ‘cause Buccellati would’ve broken his legs, right?”Connie laughs along with the policeman.
“Right.”“So, who is he?”“His given name’s Passero, a small-time pusher in this territory,” Connie’s tone adopts a posher, more authoritative intonation, “...‘you should consider him a friendly nudge in the right direction. He’s not worth much on his own, but when his boss arrives to collect him, you best make sure your boss is watching’. His words! Leverage, I think.”
Satisfied with the information given, Officer Abbacchio figures the woman requires no further questioning. Besides, he waits any longer and his partner will already be in the car. Time to go.
✿
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11:05pm
Sure enough. No sooner had Abbacchio stepped out of the club and into the stark night air, Omaggio’s just finished bundling their collar into the back seat.The door slams, followed by a clattering echo of heels.
“Took your time, didn’t y-”But whatever Marco was going to say is stolen, as the heels slide to a halt, their wearer heaving a catching breath.“Officer, officer!”
“I didn’t need any more detail, miss,” Abbacchio says, pointedly, “is there something wro-”
It happens quickly. The woman is on her tiptoes, velvet hem rippling against her calves, as she throws her arms around the police officer’s neck. She closes her eyes delicately - Leone’s still open in shock - and presses her lips to his, running her fingertips through the bristles on his nape.
She pulls away a hair’s length, leaving a touch of rouge, and whispers, ever-so-quietly, into his ear- “that was from Bruno.”
Before pulling away entirely, smiling brightly.“To say thank you! That’s all,” with a playful giggle, “grazie again, officers!”
Politely, or in retroaction to his own surprise, Marco waits until the young woman has gone again before he whistles toward his partner, still red of lip and complexion.“Next time, I’ll question the girl, alright?”
The scent of perfume and residual patchouli lingers that whole night.