J. Rusolo Ward

“Hard Knocks?”  Randy didn’t sound impressed.  “I’m in trouble and you take me to a dive bar?”

“I have it on good authority that the folks here can help.”

“Whose authority?”

Why was he being difficult?  “You don’t want to know.”  I opened the door and gestured for him to enter.

He crossed his arms and held his ground.  “Who?”

“Frankie.”

“Sticky Fingers Frankie?  He’s a mobster.”

“Who else could I turn to?  You want to fake your death and disappear.  It’s not like I could walk into a police station and ask for advice.”

“I don’t like you associating with criminals.”

After the day I had, I couldn’t deal with this.  “Then why did you come to me?”

“That’s a low blow.”

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.  I loved my brother, but if he kept this up he wouldn’t have to worry about faking his death.  “I’m just trying to help.”

Randy was waiting in my kitchen when I got home.  In a panic, he told me he had to disappear.  He had embezzled money from the bank he worked for and was about to get caught.  He got out of the building – along with a duffle bag full of money that he kept on hand – while his boss was talking to the feds.

“You sure these guys can stage my death and get me the papers I need to start a new life? Birth certificate, driver’s license, college degree?”

I nodded.  “Do you still want to go through with this?  You could turn yourself in.”

“I can’t go to jail.  I’d rather die.”

You’d think someone so adverse to jail would stay on the straight and narrow path.

I should’ve turned him in, but he was family.  I nodded at the door.  “Let’s go.”