#eff writes

He barges in without knocking, body still hot, buzzing from the half-done stretching session; moves an empty glencairn to the side, carves just enough space for himself on the table, right on top of the papers, “I’m going on a date.”

Jake’s head is work-busy: he doesn’t acknowledge him or the attitude, barely looks at the phone, “I didn’t see the file.”

“Well, about that,” Blue Brown pauses, rests his bare feet on Jake’s lap, makes himself comfortable (unavoidable) before saying, “I’m afraid, you won’t approve of him, Dad.” That finally catches his attention, makes Jake look, makes him tense. “He’s so much older. Your business partner. Your good friend.”

Stops at that; gives Jake time to weigh the options, lets him decide what will happen next.

Jake can say, I forbid you from seeing this person, ever; Jake can lock him up in the house: you’re not to leave unless I say so; Jake can send him on a six months mission to the other side of the world: keep him away for long enough, the reason why he did that forgotten like a distant dream by the time Blue Brown is allowed to come back home.

Jake can put an end to it, here and now, before anything even has a chance to happen (he doesn’t).  

“Who?” It’s an executioner’s question: he needs a name to know who to kill.

Jake has lots of friends: most offensively boring for Blue Brown’s taste, all of them useful in various degrees (this one is marked extra in both: extra bland and extra important), so Blue Brown looks at him without blinking - doesn’t want to miss a single emotion, a single twisted nerve - when he answers, “The one with the exceedingly long title.” The reaction is immediate, immense: it strains Jake’s entire body, like a hit to the gut, because he knows - of course he knows - how bad it all will be, even before Blue Brown adds, “Nicholas Clement George Fitzalan-Williams. Our not so blue blooded Duke.”

Face ridden with frustration, fingers rubbing circles over the closed eyes, like he’s trying to contain a brutal headache, Jake asks, “Could you not pick anyone else?”

It’s a futile question - I gave you a chance to abstain; you didn’t take it - he’s in a lose-lose situation, arm caught elbow-deep in a bear trap, the only way out is forward, with teeth ripping and gnawing and breaking both muscle and bone.

“I wasn’t the one picking. I just took the bait.” Blue Brown slides closer to the edge of the table, uses his own body like a line of taxidermist’s pins: sharp knees solid against his shoulders, toes digging into his thighs; he’s all merciless pressure anchoring Jake down: leans closer, keeps him trapped between indecently open legs, reads the text out loud, “That Manila job was something. I knew you wouldn’t stay in his shadow forever. It’s time for you to spread those wings.” Sentences replicated with the excitement of the sender - needles jammed into nail beds, one finger at a time.  

“Spread those wings?” Jake repeats, every syllable from his mouth wrapped in disgust. They both know that’s an audacity of someone who was keeping tabs, someone who thought about it all not once and not twice.  

“I’m just as surprised as you.”

(Honestly, Nick deserves to die just for those words alone.)

“Are you?” Jake asks, his forearm pressed along the line of Blue Brown’s leg, from the slope of the bare ankle to the angled bend of the knee, hand covering the outer side of the thigh, palm flat and warm over the soft cotton of the fabric, more an instinct than a conscious gesture of ownership.

“Uh-huh,“ smiles, hooks their little fingers together, “pinky swear.“ He’s the only one having fun in this situation (that’s the only way it will ever be).

Blue Brown moves away (lets go of him); gets back to playing a centerpiece, warm body going still, no different from a book or a pair of the perfectly balanced scales, fingers wrapped around table’s edge to support an upward curve of his spine.

Jake picks a letter opener; lets its weight rest in his open hand; he looks like he’s ready to jam it handle-deep in Nick’s throat (his reaction - predictable, an aperitif of the violence to come - makes Blue Brown excited the same way long hours of observation do when they finally pay-off: be it a first sight of a deer when they hunt or someone brave enough to be the first in line to ask for a gun when he works; it all has the same root, the same emotional weight, the same line of action).

“Manila? What were you doing in Manila?” he finally asks, focuses his mind on something more familiar. Tangible. Work-centered. Something he knows how to control.

“Enjoyed the beach. Enjoyed the food,” Blue Brown answers with the earnest, intentional laziness, eyes following the movement of trees outside, head focused on the branches bend under the weight of wind.  “Sold eighty-five SFARs. Full price.”

“Not what I asked,” frustration seeps through the masses of anger and disdain, nips at Blue Brown’s ankles - ubiquitous, expected. “We’re not supposed to be anywhere near Manila, full price or not, the number always has to be zero.”

Emotional hue changes to disapointment; Jake doesn’t like to go over the rules more than twice - their two by two equals four, their core laws of physics, their Bible teachings (Old Testament edition) all set in stone, same for everyone - it’s double the misery when he has to do it with him out of all people, his brightest, his closest, his most trusted. 

So Blue Brown makes him do it again, again and again; makes him go back to being the mentor, the one teaching about the structures of power, about the lines of influence, about the limits of control. 

“Your exclusivity contract, I know.” I don’t care. “It was an one-off deal. Spur of the moment.” That’s a lie, but Jake doesn’t have to know that, not now when they have something far more important (and fun) at hand. “No one will track that batch.”

“He knows about it, so someone already did,” Jake snaps, unable to tolerate Blue Brown’s laxness, “You know what happens when people start talking.”

“People always talk. Who cares.”

You’re going to kill him anyway, so none of it matters.

Can we meet?

I’d better keep it on the down low.

Don’t want Jake to know.

He might intervene before we even start.

Send. 

“How did you even let someone tail you? I raised you better than that.” There’s parental scold in his voice; it’s one of those rare moments between them when Blue Brown can’t argue and win because Jake is right; he will always be right when it comes to things like this, the ones nurtured and molded by his hand.

“Maybe I’m just getting old?”

It sounds ridiculous enough to make Jake chuckle, ease the tension in his body, “Yes, sure, that’s what it is.”

“Well, I’m definitely not getting younger. Time doesn’t work like that,” continues to play, leg dangling in the air, back and forth, back and forth like a pendulum bar; he’s a cat lounging in the summer sun.  

“Well, if she catches you by your retiree ankle, you’re on your own. I’m not helping.“

She - the queen of arachnids who controls that corner of the world. It will be interesting to meet her in person one day; it will be good for him to learn from someone who makes Jake this cautious.

“Out of fear?” Blue Brown asks the ceiling.

“Out of principle.” So it can be another lesson, an exercise in humility: Jake would never allow suffering go to waste, if you have to feel pain, learn from it. “Be more careful.” It’s something half-soft, something stuck between an order and a sincere want to protect. “There are people out there who can’t be reasoned with money.”

The ones ruled by their fervid hearts and self-imposed dogmas.

Blue Brown tilts his head, catches Jake’s eyes, “Yes, I know, I’m sitting in front of one now.”

For a second, he forgets why he’s there; for a second, he forgets about Nick and the game, and the world; then, the phone chimes.

Accor 8. Friday, 11pm.

“Finally.”

Casino is a good choice. Noisy, crowded. One of the places where Blue Brown can still have his fun, even if the guns aren’t allowed. Nick’s territory.

And get rid of the phone.

He does as he’s told: turns the phone off, throws the SIM card away - spoils a barely opened bottle of a fifty-year-old whiskey. “And done.” They both watch as it sinks down, turns into a dark spot at the bottom, small and useless, a beetle’s forewing snapped in two. “So, how are you feeling?”

About that. About Nick. About what you’re about to do.

“I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner.” It’s a non-answer because Jake has already emotionally detached himself from the problem, just like that. To him, Friday will be just another day of making tough decisions, carrying out an execution. Bloodied hands and a fresh body to bury, nothing he hasn’t done before, nothing he won’t do in the future.

By Sunday, there will be someone to fill the newly formed vacuum of power before any real damage can be done. By Monday, it will be business as usual. They both will go to Nick’s funeral service, sit through the sermons and goodbyes, put flowers and dirt in his grave, then go back home and move on with their lives.