Christmas at the Maratzzos

If you haven’t been to Christmas at the Maratzzos, then you haven’t been at any Christmas at all.

Indeed, it was a splendid gathering for a splendid time of year. Often while purchasing supplies for the party, members of the Maratzzo blood would look upon other shoppers and silently look down at them with condescending glares, knowing that their Christmas get-together could not even come close to one that has been in esteemed practice for the past one hundred years.

However, this year all members of the Maratzzos knew it would be much different. It was not too long ago that Joseph Maratzzo, son of Don Maratzzo and next in line to be patriarch of the family, was released from the state prison. It was some time ago that Joseph raped and murdered a 14 year old girl of the bank of the Philamabury river. He was caught almost immediately, and was originally set to be sentenced to thirty years; however, lucky for him, Joseph’s father knew many people in the state legal system and his sentence was reduced to six.

Despite this, it wasn’t Joseph’s crime that was the problem. The Maratzzos have had a long history of running bad into the law – perhaps almost as long as their Christmas tradition – and so Joseph’s behavior could be easily excused. What was the real problem was Analissa Maratzzo, sister of Joseph, who for quite a few years now had been indoctrinated into a fledgling feminist movement. Analissa had known about Joseph’s felony and asked the family multiple times for him to not only be declined an invitation to the Christmas party, but also to be exiled from the family altogether – two punishments that carried much the same weight. Of course her pleas had fallen upon deaf ears, and eerily in the weeks coming up to the fateful Christmas gathering she had suddenly gone silent. Now was the night.

The first to arrive were cousins Pesco and Maribel. Pesco was a good friend of Joseph’s – their history extended much before Joseph’s prison sentence, and they in fact kept up their relationship via regular prison meetings. Maribel, born Maribel Shaufter, had been indoctrinated into the Maratzzos via marriage, and by this point had become used to their ways. She, much like Pesco, Don, and Don’s wife Maria, believed Joseph to actually be innocent, despite overwhelming evidence otherwise.

Ironically, the one person who believed this evidence was the next to show. Analissa came slung on the arms of her own boyfriend, Monticello, a hippy man from the west that her parents despised. Analissa herself said nothing off suspicion – in fact, she even gave her cousin Pesco a hug when she first saw him, which had always been seen as out of the ordinary, and likely the first hit that something was wrong.

After this followed some brief time where the family all got together in the living room to talk amongst one another. Monticello was introduced to Maribel by Analissa – though beyond that, she hardly said a word. Maria had thought to bring up Analissa’s disfavor towards Joseph multiple times, but continually decided against it. This all lead up to Joseph’s ultimate arrival.

He came with no one. He wore a fresh suit with a mahogany tie. His father was the first to greet him – then his mother, who embraced him with a warm hug. All this time Analissa stayed in the living room, never moving, waiting along until everyone else had finally gone into the dining room. She followed.

It was only when everyone finally settled that Don realized something was wrong. He turned toward Analissa to his right and in a gruff tone asked where Monticello was.

Analissa shrugged. “No idea, pa. Probably out having a smoke.”

“We’re about to have dinner and he’s out back having a smoke?”

“I’m not his mom.”

“I’m not saying you are, but he needs to be here. Go get his ass back.”

Joseph, who was aware of his sister’s distaste for him, perhaps tried to remedy the situation by siding with her and calming his father down. “I’m sure it won’t take him too long. Let’s just start now, alright?”

As agitated as Don was, he couldn’t help agreeing with his favorite son. And yet, as dinner went on, Monticello continued to be absent. By the end of the dinner, both Don and Maria seemed completely agitated. While they were distracted, Analissa tapped on Joseph and Pesco, who were sitting together.

“Can I talk to you both, for a bit? In private.”

Pesco knew what was coming, though perhaps Joseph was a bit more ignorant. Though Pesco tried to convince his cousin not to go through with it, Analissa had rushed them just enough that Pesco had no time to do it. And so the three made their way to the garage.

Perhaps a more romantic writer would say that, in the end, Joseph got what he deserved. But I am not a romantic – I, in all honesty, am more of a realist, and can say with complete certainty that Joseph Pescetti Maratzzo spent his last moments on Earth choking on a mixture of lead, vomit, and his own blood.

Pesco squirmed back into a corner while Analissa held the gun shakily in her hand.

“What the fuck, are you crazy? What are you thinking?” Pesco no longer seemed to have the mental stability to bargain with his captor. Though, as it appeared, Analissa herself didn’t quite know what to do either.

“I’m doing exactly what needs to be done, Pesco. I know injustice when I see it. I’m sorry you couldn’t see it the same way.”

Time stopped as Pesco looked for an out. In a quick and desperate leap he dashed toward the button to open the garage in hopes that he could get out just before Analissa could get a clear shot. Yet, as the door opened, he realized what was really going on.

The opened garage revealed Monticello in his black pickup. Analissa hopped on, though not without giving some last words to her cousin.

“I’ll be watching you and this family. Don’t try to pull any shit like this again, or I’ll know.”

By the time everyone else had come to investigate the noise from the garage, Analissa and her boyfriend were long gone. Don and Maria loomed and sobbed over the corpse of their once renowned son. One thing was for sure – Christmas would never be the same.

Old World Blues

There’s a saying back from where I’m from – Old World Blues.

It’s used to describe a person who’s so stuck within the past that they can’t seem to see through anything else. I remember that’s what I was thinking about that summer morning. The Old World Blues.

I opened up the shop early, not out of necessity or desire but simply out of convenience. When I drove down that morning I had just happen to arrive a few minutes early, and instead of waiting it out I felt I should just open it up instead.

Private detective work doesn’t get too many customers – at least not on a daily basis. Standard investigations usually last two to three months, padded by small moments of hiatus in between. This was one of them. My last investigation – with which I can’t recall the details of – had ended a few days before. Now, I sat, waiting, thinking about those Old World Blues.

It was two minutes before the office usually opened that I heard a knock. The sound scared me, because I had grown so accustomed to later day calls – not early morning visits – that I forgot about the possibility. I had expected it to be some delivery man ready to give me a package that had been coming a few days late. What I ended up getting wasn’t that at all.

The woman at the other end of the door was clearly in some mix of distress and depression. I thought her to be on the older side, though that could’ve just been due to the stress in her eyes. It was clear that she didn’t choose me first – she had seen a couple of other agencies and all of them had declined. I’ve seen that look of desperation before. It worried me – most of the time when I’m not the first call it’s because they asked for too much, which is usually much more than I myself can handle. And yet the woman had a sort of urgency to her, and urgency that lead me to want to at least humor her in case.

“You’re here a bit early.” I told her, pointing to the Business Hours sign out front.

“Oh, I’m sorry… It looked like the lights were on.”

“Well they’re certainly on now,” I beckoned her, “Come on in.”

Either of us had barely gotten seated when she began her story. From the beige letter bag she had at her side she pulled out a folder, slightly worn, with the slightest dab of a coffee stain on its front center and filled to the brim with what I could only assume she was about to tell me.

“Listen, I’ve contacted a lot of place about this, but… My daughter is missing – she has been for a long time, you see – And I just-”

“Cold case?”

She stuttered. “W-what?”

“Has the official investigation ceased?”

“I mean, yes, but-”

“Sorry, I don’t follow through with cold cases.”

Already I could see her frustration boiling back up once more. She knew exactly what I meant – she had heard it many times before. But she was hoping I wouldn’t have said the same. Now, I did; and she came back to that ever present state. “What? Why?”

I got out my cigarette holder from amongst a pile of old scans, pulling out a very specific card – the only yellow one in the bunch, an old aged Japanese Musumi. They had always given me an age in heated negotiations. And so I lit it.“They’re dead ends. Nothing anyone can do about it. That’s just the painful truth.”

“Could you just… just listen to what I have to say? Please?”

The Musumi always works. Always did work, I should say… but Old World Blues was still on the mind. I struggled to resist the force that had already overtaken me. Following her up, giving her more hope – it was a mistake. But I couldn’t help it. The air was too thick with the scent of cigarette smoke and mystery. I had thought about my own life… the own mysteries I had experienced, as well as the closures I hadn’t. I decided it was time to break the rules.

“Alright, give me the foundations.”

Her eyes perked up. She was never able to convince anyone else. She began: “We were on a trip… we stopped, at a hotel not too far from here, just the two of us. There wasn’t anyone else there, not from what I could see. We got our room together, got ready and went to bed. Last thing I said to her before I dozed off… she was playing with her tablet, and I told her to get to bed or else she’d be tired in the morning. She nodded to me, and I turned and fell asleep. The next morning...”

“She was gone?”

“Yes. Out of nowhere. Tablet and everything was still there. The bed looked fine too… looked like she had just gotten out of bed and never came back.” The nameless woman began to quiver to herself under the recalling of events passed.

“Did you not hear anything during the night? Like her getting out of bed, anything?”

“I heard the bed ricket – her getting out of bed, I think – but nothing else.” The guilt that weighed her down was clear. I felt a tinge of sympathy; but I had seen and heard of many worse cases before, and my empathetic thought had been sanded down by so many years of hearing the same dreadful things over and over again.

“Did you hear the door open or close?”

“No. I heard nothing.”

“And what did the official investigation come up with?”

“That she must have wandered off during the night, or worse… someone got her. I… I just want to see my daughter again, that’s all.” I could feel the mood dampening even lower. She began to shed a tear.

“How long ago did this happen?”

“Not… not long. Almost exactly five days since.”

I thought about it. I thought about the case, and about the mother, and about her missing daughter. I’ve been brought people wanting closure before. Even I myself have felt the pain of not knowing the end of a story. Perhaps that was what brought me into thinking about the Old World Blues that morning in the first place. It was either luck or fate for that women, for in the first time of my entire investigative career, I sat down and decided to accept a cold case request.

“Oh, thank you sir! Thank you so much.”

I shrugged it off, pretending it had less meaning to me than it actually did. “Don’t mention it. I’ll get on it soon.”

I watched her slowly leave her seat, leaving some trepidation behind her, and move silently towards the exit. But right before she turned the brass knob, I recalled one case that I could get closure to.

“What is your name?”

She turned back to me, her panicked hair created a shadow that guised true meaning in her face. “Maria. Maria Cartwell. My daughter’s name is Susie Cartwell.”

No one else came that entire day. No one else needed to. I grabbed the stained portfolio she had left on my desk and flipped it open. It turned out to be a mistake, for the first thing I laid eyes upon was Susie’s smiling face. A smiling face that, perhaps at the time, was meant to have joyful meaning. Meant to be relaxing and peaceful, to calm one that was feeling particularly neurotic. But the context had changed now. For what I now saw in the young daughter’s face now was a beckoning. A plea. Save my mother, she told me. Save my mother, for I am already dead. But if you cannot save her… then at the very least, go and save yourself.

[END OF EPISODE 1]

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Saturn Devouring his Son

The reason is because the painting was hung up right inside Richard's office. It wasn't the actual piece of course, though if he really wished it he could easily procure the money to obtain the original. Still, he liked the picture. Really liked it. Where all others obtained a sense of fear and anxiety from it, Mr. Richard felt calmed. By intimidating the others who entered the room it aided him. He prayed it would aid him tonight.

There was the expected knock. Richard opened it an out came the expected son. The two of them sat down across from each other on Richard's old mahogany table. The following conversation occurred:

“My son.”

“My father.”

A short period of silence.

“So you know why I'm here, correct?”

The father didn't answer.

“You know why I'm here, correct?”

“I have the idea.”

“I... I... I, listen, I talked about it to Marilyn. In full detail. Now I'm not saying you're lying to me, but you should-”

“I know exactly why you're here. There, I said it. I know exactly why you're here.”

“I'm of age now.”

“Yes.”

“I am the eldest.”

“Yes.”

“So, I am wishing to make the transaction now. To make it easier for us both, down the road.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“This isn't a negotiation father. This isn't a deal – hell, it isn't even a wager. This is set in stone. You promised me this a long time ago, and I've come to take-”

“I'm not giving it to you.”

“So you're going back on promise?”

“That's not what this is about.”

“Then what is it about? 'Cause I'm beginning to have a hard time-”

“When I wrote your inheritance, I declared that I would only give you it if I knew for sure you were going to be something worthwhile and do something successful with it.”

“Oh, god, please. Don't go down this route. Don't do this.”

“At the time, it seemed like nothing. Of course you were going to get the money. That's why I was so hopeful about it, that's why, at the time, it may have seemed like a promise to you-”

“It was a promise.”

“It was a promise that you'd get it if you followed the conditions. Now, I was certain you were going to be successful, but... do you even remember how I became who I am-”

“Even? What's that supposed to mean?”

“Do you know who I am? I am a deal maker. I have gotten schinded by a lot of people who I otherwise thought were really great business partners. I know how to make contracts. I've been doing this for fourty years. Fourty fucking years. I made my clam business when I was a little fuckin' hoodwink Albanian immigrant in the middle of chink town.”

“It wasn't even a business...”

“Oh, huh? Really? It wasn't? You say that like you've got some authority. Please, please – if you – if you at all have any expertise in business, or entrepreneurship, or … hell, I'll allow anything. Anything at all. Listen all your fucking accomplishments out, right here. Just spell them out to me.”

“I wrote a book.”

“No you didn't. No you fucking didn't. You didn't write shit. You said you were going to write a book and you didn't write shit. Waste of fucking talent.”

“I did write- no, now hold on. Don't you speak like that to me.”

“What? What? You're my son, not the other way around. I can say what I-”

“Don't. Speak.”

“Haha, what? Whatya fuckin' doing? Are you threatening me right now?”

“I made my own fucking fortune without you. I lived my own god damn life without you. While you were busy fuckin' two-cent Bolivian daddy's girls twenty years younger than you who probably felt like having your ancient wood was worse than rape but they did it for the money... while you were doing that... I was establishing a community. I have a fuckin' community of people coming after me, looking after me, caring about what I say, because I wrote that book. What, what you think someone cares about what you have to say? Like actually, genuinely cares? The fuckin' shareholders are just dealing with your shit by this point because they can't force you to resign since you're the piece of stubborn shit you are. And don't even get me started... don't even get me started on Tony and Lewis... ha ha, if you think Tony and Lewis like you, then you really are fuckin' delusional.”

“Well I'm certainly sure that Lewis has done a lot more in his short life than you have in your miserable one.”

“Miserable? Oh no, my life isn't miserable. It's just when I have to talk to you. When I have to talk to you it feels like Hell has invaded the land of the living.”

“I... can't... do this, not right now. Fuck this, I'm getting a drink.”

“How does it feel?”

“I said I'm getting a drink.”

“Don't walk away from me, I'm not done until I have my money.”

“I'm only walking to the alcohol cabinet, calm the fuck down.”

A short silence.

“Alright, alright. Listen, we can make a deal.”

“Yes, we can make a deal. You give me all the money I deserve.”

“No.”

“Fuck you.”

“I am not giving you one point five million dollars. But I'm willing to go a bit lower than that.”

“Oh, so when I first walk in you're adamant that you're not giving shit. Then I knock you down a few pegs and you say you're willing to negotiate?”

“I'm giving you a fair deal, don't talk shit.”

“Yes, and my fair deal is the million. The one that is owed to me. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Then we don't have a deal.”

A quick silence.

“Jesus, the fuck are you-”

“Listen. Listen to me. I am done playing around, alright? You come – look at me – look here, at me – I am done with the fucking deals. I am done with you. I am not standing here all damn... LOOK at me.”

“Good fucking Christ, were you trying to hit me? Calm the fuck-- AH GOD, JESUS.”

Silence.

More silence.

The door is shut.

Heavy breathing.

“What have I done.”

The painting is taken down.

Some minor scuffling.

A vault is opened.

“For the better.”

The door is opened.

The door is closed.

Last Stand of Buckweed Ranch

Let me tell you now the tragic tale of Buckweed Ranch.

Back in Texas, during the Great Depression, there was a wave of crises that involved landlords going to the farmer's home in order to evict them from the property in the fear that they could no longer produce profit. This caused a wave of terror among the farmers themselves, calling for the government to amend these so called discriminatory violations and be able to stay in the place they raised their families. And yet, despite all this anger and fear that developed out of these unplanned evictions, all of the families ended up leaving – begrudgingly or no. All of them, except Walter Forsen.

Walter had always been the stubborn type. Ever since he was born he had lived on that Ranch, he had a strong devotion to it. As men and their families began to be evicted, Walter had barely batted an eye. Even Lando Holmes, the owner of the ranch and lifelong friend of the Forsens, begged Walter to leave early, offering him large sums of money to go live in a more stable area. He told Walter that it wasn't him, but the banks that were throwing Walter off. Walter didn't listen.

At it was in February of 1932 that Lando himself was finally forced to come down to the ranch with a tractor and force Walter off the land. He got all the way up to the door and prepared to knock when Walter opened the door himself.

From the beginning the last Forsen's disposition seemed incredibly odd. Whereas he had been sending Lando crude and hateful replies to his letters from that point on, at the door the man seemed eager to see him and completely oblivious of what was about to happen. He welcomed Lando in, told him to sit at the kitchen table, and then wait while Walter went to go finish something up. The way Lando sat at that kitchen table meant he was facing the windows of the kitchen with the door behind him – meaning he was completely ignorant when Walter fired the two shots from his revolver straight into the back of his head.

They say Lando didn't die at first, but rather fell off the chair and began convulsing on the floor for a few moments before his official death finally came. It didn't matter to Walter. The man he had once called a friend was now a significant threat that needed to be eliminated. As all men know, property is valued more than friends.

It didn't take the police too long to gather what had happened to Lando. They had warned Lando of Forsen's speech before, when he had first began sending the letters. Lando, in his ignorance, refused to believe them. He believed that he was the only man who could convince Walter to leave that place. Now, everyone knew no one could.

They send the entire Alberton county police department to that farm. The cop cars were perfectly lined up around the perimeter so there was no escape. They wanted to bait him out, so they waited. Waited until the man himself finally appeared at the second story balcony.

He was only able to shoot the rifle once before a flurry of bullets decimated his body. The one shot was actually quite interesting; the bullet was a long way off from hitting any of the policeman. This is the shot where the story tends to differ. Some say Walter Forsen was just a bad shot. Some say that the rifle he was using was old and worn out, and so the bullets trajectory was much different than Walter probably anticipated. Others say that he wasn't trying to hit the police at all, but rather for they to hit him.

Buckweed Ranch never had an occupant since. The Depression wore it out, and its newly found dark history destroyed it. Some men in Alberton county believe that's what Walter wanted – for it only to ever be a Forsen ranch. To some men in the county, Walter is a pioneering hero. To others, he is the ultimate fear, and the ultimate villain.