Part Three

March fifteenth, 10h35 | Dr Wendell Carter’s Office

Narrator: Dr Carter was blown away, not by either of the guns in either of the Espositos’ hands, but by the progress they had made over the course of an hour. That Alessandra was so willing to answer Dr Carter’s questions made him feel that she was more willing to make the counselling work than she let on. Alessandra’s defiant nature made itself well-known, manifesting in her posture. She looked relaxed, the gun lazily aimed at Dr Carter’s gut, her thumb mindlessly removing and returning the safety, a movement that in anyone else would have seemed nervous but in Mrs Esposito seemed somehow soothing, as hypnotic as the undulation of those waves Dr Carter’s first mistress loved to surf. Her pale, green eyes pierced his soul, Dr Carter mused, wondering where such a poetic description had come from. He’d never liked poetry, for he felt it took too much to identify what lay in the mind of the poet. Short novels were more his thing, and textbooks, which he found relaxing because they were strictly facts, no analysis.

Maury, on the other hand, seemed nervous despite the calm, languid manner with which he presented himself. His eyes were everywhere, never focusing on one thing for too long, as if he were afraid that the principles of quantum mechanics would remove the world he did not see from him, as if he would miss something. But there was a calculated air about his darting, violet eyes, a pattern Dr Carter was sure he could never comprehend. Dr Carter saw enough of the pattern to know it was there, but not enough to know what it was. Dr Carter had heard of the Espositos, but he did not yet know that the couple he dealt with was the one renowned for emptying whole houses full of enemy gunmen and mobsters, entirely by themselves, reportedly laughing and joking the whole massacre. Dr Carter only knew that Alessandra and Maury were enthralled with each other beyond their means, and that they would literally do anything to stay together, to make their marriage, which, Dr Carter wrote, was falling less apart than they believed.

Quickshot: What the fuck are you writing, doc? Did I say somethin’ wrong? Are you callin’ me a lunatic?!

Maury: What are you calling her a lunatic for, Dr Carter?! She was just giving you a memory, not something indicative of disease or something!

Quickshot, jumping to her feet and aiming her gun at the cowering Dr Carter: What the fuck did you write, doc?! Huh?! You gettin’ off on prescribing people shit?!

Dr Carter, dropping his pen and throwing his hands up in supplication: I’m just taking notes to keep up, I swear! I’m not prescribing anything! I’m just —

Narrator: There was knocking on the door. Three short raps, a brief pause, and two more. It was Nathaniel Willow, an associate of Maury’s and Alessandra’s, five foot ten and a quarter with jet-black hair, a wicked smile that reminded everyone who saw it of both foxes and crows, with dark blue eyes too iridescent to merely be called navy. His long, slender fingers pressed against the door gently, as if he could will it open by contact. If the door were comprised of hearts, he could have; however, this door was made of wood, and blocked by a chair.

Willow: Are you sure he’s in there, love?

Welles: He’s been in there all morning, even before I got here. Hasn’t come out yet.

Narrator: Ms Welles had been referred to as ‘love’ by too many men in her life to swoon from the way Mr Willow said it, but there was more of a stirring in her breast than she anticipated when his smile slowly sprouted and he took a step away from the door, adjusting the lunch he carried.

Maury: Come in, Nathaniel. Thank you for coming.

Willow: Of course, boss. I just wish you’d mentioned the secretary; I would’ve brought something.

Maury: That’s not necessary, Nathaniel. Come in, come in.

Narrator: Ms Welles assumed that Mr Willow meant, of course, to have brought her some lunch, but he was in fact, much to Mrs Esposito’s delight, implying that he would have taken Ms Welles’ life had he known that she would be there waiting for him, capable of seeing his face and recognizing him later. Nathaniel Willow was Maury and Alessandra’s personal guard, though he served more the former than the latter, not out of some strange hierarchy of affiliation, but because it was Maury’s earnings which lined Mr Willow’s pockets rather than Alessandra’s. She refused to pay Mr Willow, not because she did not like him, but because she was insured by the guns in her pockets. Maury was never one for shooting; he was more of a knife-wielder, or a fire-starter. For things that required him to get close and personal. For things that were far off, things Maury could not see, Nathaniel Willow’s piercing gaze, quick draw, and sure fire ensured they remained that way.

Nathaniel Willow was eleven years old when he was picked up by the Esposito family. His older brother had been trying to join the family for years, but was rejected on the grounds that he was too much of a, in Maury’s words, “wild dog.” Nathaniel’s test had been to kill his older brother, something he did with a cool delight; the smirk upon Nathaniel’s face was not unnoticed by both Maury and Alessandra, both of whom immediately fell in love with the crow-haired lad. Nathaniel was not challenging to raise. He was a quiet, intelligent boy, who grew into a soft-spoken, observant young man, who flourished into the dedicated, sly man who bowed to Alessandra as he entered Dr Carter’s office.

Willow: Good morning, Alessandra. I brought you some brunch, as you avoided your breakfast again.

Quickshot: You know I was never one for breakfast, Nathaniel.

Willow, smiling softly: I remember, but you need to eat. None of us could stand it if you were sick. I brought a salami and mustard sandwich, au français.

Quickshot, taking the sandwich with a hidden grin: Soft bread, hm?

Willow, nodding at Maury: To match his eyes, of course.

Quickshot: Ha!

Willow: Here you are, Maury. Romaine, sliced roma, spicy mustard, rotisserie chicken, whole wheat.

Maury: Thank you, Nathaniel.

Willow: My pleasure, sir. And, for you, doc, according to your receipts and the notes of various former assistants, you’ve always taken delight in Caesar chicken sandwiches.

Quickshot: What a tasteless man ya found us, Maury… ya sure he’s who’s gonna save our marriage?

Willow: I have my reservations, too, if I’m honest.

Quickshot: Even Nathaniel finds the guy a sketch, Maury. Na-than-iel.

Maury: Let’s give the man a chance, bella; we’re already here.

Narrator: Dr Carter finds himself entirely perplexed as to whether he should feel honored that someone did research to glean his favorite sandwich, or if he should be all too perturbed by the fact that someone had done the research, and that the man who did so kept eyeing Dr Carter as if he were a plague upon the earth, merely because of the sandwich he preferred. The three ate their sandwiches in silence, the only words spoken between Mr Willow and Mr Esposito.

Maury: Did you get anything for yourself, Nathaniel?

Willow, shaking his head: Non, mais je pas faim.

Narrator: No one really knew why Mr Willow spoke French. It was something the young man had done since he turned fifteen, perhaps the only act of rebellion against his Italian family. Maury only forbade it when in public with other mobsters, though he enjoyed hearing the way Mr Willow employed French in his speech. It fit Mr Willow, Maury believed, though he did not understand why. Alessandra found it a beautiful addition to the generally harsh tones Americans employed, though she wished Mr Willow would take up Italian as much as he did French. After they finished their meals, Mr Willow trashed the newspapers in which the sandwiches had been wrapped, and took a seat overlooking the window. Maury and Alessandra were well-used to what they referred to as Mr Willow’s perch. Dr Carter found it entirely unsettling. He cleared his throat with a nervous cough, took up his pencil and pad, and reminded himself of the point from which he was to launch his next line of questioning.

Dr Carter: Maury, what do you think of the beginning of your marriage?

Quickshot: Probably nothing worthwhile.

Maury: I was quiet for yours, Alessandra.

Quickshot: (rolls her eyes and crosses her heart)