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Ferris knew that something was wrong the minute he spotted Demos.
The emaciated Italian was cradling a cup of steaming espresso and gazing vacantly out the window. Maria's Diner was a lively establishment. Waitresses bustled between the tables and glassware clinked as a guest spontaneously announced a toast. However, Demos remained oblivious to the laughter around him. He appeared to be completely absorbed in thought. Dark shadows had developed under his eyes, which suggested a combination of worldliness and weariness that was uncommon among men his age. The Giorgetti family had experienced a drastic shift in power over the last four years. Demos accepted his ever-growing responsibilities without complaint. He had been groomed for this line of work from the time he was a child. It was in his blood; he was born to kill.
Ferris silently understood his best friend's struggles. Demos and Ferris had experienced the joys, heartbreaks, and fears of adolescence together. They had narrowly escaped death several times during their teenage years. Demos had irrevocably changed his Jewish friend's life, forever. The two planned to either grow old or die young together.
Ferris passed several faux granite tables before sliding into a red, patent leather booth at the back of the diner. Demos acknowledged him with a lifeless smile. His untouched espresso had grown cold. Ferris's dark eyebrows involuntarily quirked upward. He wasn't overly concerned by his friend's baggy eyes. The dark circles had gradually become a permanent feature against Demos's ghostly white skin. No, it was something entirely different that alarmed him. It was a red flag that screamed “bad news” louder than a blaring ambulance siren.
Ferris realized that he was staring awkwardly at Demos, so he shifted his gaze to the laminated dessert menu that was propped against a cheap acrylic vase. The November special was pumpkin pie à la mode. Ferris didn't particularly like sweets. He fidgeted with the bridge of his glasses before continuing. There had to be a good reason for this. “Demos, why is your hair parted in the wrong direction?”
It was true. The slender mobster always swept his layered, jaw-length bangs to the right in order to hide a small scar on his forehead. However, today his long raven bangs were combed to the left. The scar was plainly visible.
Demos suppressed a sigh. “Is it really that obvious? I was hoping not to draw unnecessary attention to myself.”
“Don't you always like drawing attention to yourself?” asked Ferris. His thick left eyebrow arched skeptically. Something was definitely wrong. Upon closer observation, the genius noticed that the scar was a few shades lighter than usual. “Did you undergo laser scar treatment while I was attending Yale?” he asked. Demos was undeniably vain and proud of his “naturally good looks.” However, Ferris surmised that his best friend might consider minor plastic surgery to erase a few imperfections that resulted from his line of work. Most mobsters wore their scars as badges of experience and strength. Demos was not one of them.
“Plastic surgery? No fucking way. That's like hijacking a little plane and attaching a huge pink banner behind it that says, 'Demos is Gay!' in sparkly purple letters. I can totally see it waving dramatically in the wind against a breathtaking sunset.”
Ferris resisted the urge to laugh. "Well, then why does your scar appear to be disappearing?" A waitress approached the table with a menu and a set of utensils for Ferris, but he quickly dismissed her by shaking his head.
“It's called 'liquid concealer.' Don't tell me that you've never heard of it?”
“Why the hell would I know what that is?”
The mobster furtively withdrew a narrow cylinder from an inner coat pocket. The cap was a golden sphere engraved with the letter “S.” Demos lightly held the concealer between his fingers like a cigarette. The transparent tube was half-filled with flesh-coloured liquid. Ferris immediately understood its purpose.
“So that stuff minimizes the scar but doesn't completely erase it. Uncle Victor wouldn't be able to tell the difference,” remarked Ferris. Looking back, he recalled seeing a similar tube on Emily's night stand, along with some fruit-flavored lip balms and tubes of mascara. Demos either bribed Emily or stole her liquid concealer. “If you're going to put that much effort into perfecting your complexion, then why aren't you doing something about the shadows under your eyes. That tiny scar is nothing compared to those heavy bags. Have you tried using the concealer shit there?”
Demos theatrically rolled his eyes. “You must really want to see me dead.” He returned the makeup tube to his jacket. “Anyway, this is only temporary. I'll part my hair normally and cover the scar with my bangs as soon as-”
The thin Italian stopped abruptly. Demos was normally an eloquent speaker, but his tongue appeared to be tied. “I have to comb it this way because -” he stuttered before averting his eyes.
Ferris knew that he had reached a critical point in the conversation. He waited patiently for his best friend to continue.
“I have to comb it this way because... I'd rather that my scar show instead of the p-pimple on the left side of my forehead.”
There. He had said it.
Ferris was torn between laughing and dropping his face into his palm. “For Christ's sake, so that's the reason behind all of this? The empty, unresponsive demeanor? The elaborate scar-concealment plan?” Demos gave a whole new meaning to vanity. “Jesus fucking Christ, it's just a zit! Get some acne medication or something. You're such a spoiled princess.”
Ferris wondered if his best friend secretly aspired to be a model. It was a shame that Demos was one of the shortest Caucasian men on the East Coast.
“But I never had acne when I was in high school! The first and last time that I had a blemish was when I was thirteen. Why is my skin breaking out now? What if it's adult-onset acne? What if it gets worse and spreads to my nose and chin? Oh my God, just thinking about it makes me want to shoot myself.”
The frail Italian began to hyperventilate. “I'd rather be caught dead than be seen buying zit cream at a drug store.”
Ferris groaned. He flagged down a waitress, paid the bill, and rose from the booth. “Look Demos, losing sleep over a stupid pimple isn't going to make it go away any faster. I'll buy the fucking acne soap and medicated cream for you.”
The disgruntled Jewish man tightened the wool scarf around his neck. He shoved his hands into his pockets. The wind howled furiously as he opened the heavy oak door. Sleet pelted the ground and melted into a dirty, icy slush that seeped through the toes of his worn leather shoes. He cursed under his breath.
“Hey, Ferris?”
The grumpy young man reluctantly turned around. A scowl was etched on his face.
“...Thanks.”
Ferris tried his best to remain frowning but the corners of his mouth involuntarily turned upwards.
“Whatever, you spoiled princess.”