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“I know it’s a lot to ask, but there’s no one else I can trust with this.”
Silence.
“I am trusting you with this, Guido. Either bring him in or take him out.”
The sun is high and the air is dancing and shimmering along the ground from the heat. There’s a town bustling around him: kids at play in the streets, girls calling from balconies bidding passersby to come in and sample them, horses and cowboys parading up and down the dirt road. If he wasn’t here on a job he’d have liked to stay for a while, it’s hard to find a town as lively as this far out west. However, it’s because it’s so far out west he knows he’ll find whom he’s looking for.
Pannacotta Fugo, a missing member of his gang, had to be here. Guido remembers listening to Bruno read the letter that Fugo left at camp: As far west as I can go, please don’t look for me. For my own safety and yours. He didn’t blame him at the time. Bruno had just split from the syndicate and between them and The Pinkertons on their tail it made sense. Bruno had even suggested that if they wanted to leave he wouldn’t hold it against them, their journey was leading them into hell.
And hell it was. Nara was killed, Leone was gutted literally and Bruno died in that last standoff. All that remained of their little gang was Giorno and himself. Trish had reached her destination but found she couldn’t leave them and stayed on. It’s been a year since then and the three of them have been laying low. Pinkertons headed back east after some government bigwigs came around and the syndicate itself was now under Giorno directly.
All that remained was Fugo. The only person who avoided the mess that was and the only person Giorno was sure they needed. He’d argued against it, Bruno told them to make a choice and Fugo left.
“Bruno wouldn’t want us chasing after him. If he’s still alive, which he probably ain’t, Bruno would want him to stay safe away from all this.”
“He’s still alive,” Giorno had replied. “And he still owes loyalty to the syndicate, like it or not.”
His horse jerks and pulls him out of his thoughts. There’s music coming out of a saloon and there’s even a little hitch for horses. He pets his horse and rides over clearly he wasn’t the only one weary of their journey. Guido had been riding for a week now trying to find Fugo. Of course, if someone as smart as Fugo didn’t want to be found they wouldn’t be. Unfortunately, for Fugo, he was albino and stuck out in every town he passed through. It was easy enough to ask if anyone had seen a white haired string bean come through and be pointed in the right direction.
In front of the saloon, someone had the idea to put the water trough off into the only shaded area. His horse had to stretch to reach it but at least the water was clear and cold. He tied her and scooped a bit to wipe his face before heading up inside. The music playing turned out to be one of those pianolas, the kind Fugo had told him about years ago.
“They play all on their own?”
“Yes! There’s a small mechanism inside that turns this roll of paper that has the music punched on it—“
“How the hell does that work?”
“If you’d let me explain, idiot!”
The saloon isn’t much other than that: tables with people playing cards and a bar. Curiously there’s a small stage near the pianolas. He supposes they do little shows to entertain and keep patrons here longer. It makes him think of Trish singing back at camp and Nara playing his harmonica along with her. When Fugo was with them he would hum along if he was in a good mood too. It’s a nice memory and he smiles to himself as he heads to the bar.
The barkeep is an older man with a wide brim hat and a welcoming smile.
“Welcome friend, what can I get you?”
The bar is well stocked for such a small town on the edges of civilization but then again trade is expanding further and further. It’s why Giorno wants Fugo. Something about legitimizing what they have while the government hasn’t finalized organizing the territories. He wants Fugo’s brain to help them get squared away before the next time the government comes around and rounds up people like them.
“Whatever is cold and don’t cost a fortune.” Guido replied, taking a seat on the barstool. He lounged while the barkeep readied the drink. He wondered if Fugo sat in one of these seats and had a drink here. He wonders if the young man he knew would snap at the patrons around him if they got too close like he did the gang. He wonders if he still scribbled in that notebook he’s had since Bruno picked him up.
He wonders how he’ll break the news of Bruno’s death to him.
“Here you are sir, cold honey mead.” The barkeep placed a glass of liquid gold on the bar. “20 cents. And for another 50 I’ll tell you about the person you’re looking for.”
Guido side-eyed the man before sliding him a dollar. He knows he’s not subtle like Giorno or Bruno but to get read this easily is a little humiliating. “Keep the change.”
“Why thank you, sir. Murolo, by the way.”
“Guido.”
“Italian?”
“What of it?”
“Nothing. I am as well. Or at least my parents were when they came over.”
Guido huffs. There was something that Leone had said way back that the only reason Italians came to the west was to get away from other Italians in the east. He takes a swing of the mead to find it is cold as ice.
“How’d you get this so cold? It’s hot as hell itself outside.”
Murolo laughed. “I had a small ice box put in the bar. You chip away at it till you get a nice dip and you keep all the best severed cold drinks in it and then cover it back with all ice shavings.”
Guido hums and downs the rest of the drink. “Neat trick.”
“Ain’t it? I have an errand boy who picks up the ice for me about three times a day so we don’t run out.” The barkeep pulls out his pocket watch and checks the time. “Speaking of, he should be here any second with the next ice block from the ice house.”
As if summoned, a girl backed through the swinging doors holding an ice block by giant tongs. She was yelling and whoever was holding the other end of the block. Two steps through the door and Guido felt his blood run cold. Arguing back with the girl, red in the face was Fugo. His scrawny arms were having trouble lifting the ice and it didn't help that he was too busy trying to prove a point to the girl.
“Damnit, lift it higher!”
“No! I told you I can’t lift it that high!!”
“You’re too short so it’s straining my back damnit!”
“We’re almost done, stop your complaining!”
Guido couldn’t believe his eyes. He was alive and well and arguing with someone as if his life was normal. Guido but his lip, Fugo’s life was normal and here he was about to ruin it.
“Children, just bring the ice in will you!” Murolo calls over to them as they totter in. Fugo looks from the girl, Sheila, to Murolo but instead catches sight of Guido.
“Un- fucking -believable!!” He shouts.
The ice drops.
Fugo stares at him, red eyes boring into his flesh. Murolo had ushered them into his office after the commotion with the ice and sent Sheila off to get more. He’s thought about this moment on the ride here. How it would feel to see Fugo again, how he would tell him about everything that’s happened, and now face to face with him, he’s at a loss for words.
“Why are you here?” Fugo asks, leaning against the old desk in the center of the room.
Guido looks everywhere but at him. “Uh, well,” he starts but he can’t finish. Is it shame that’s holding his tongue? Is it the past year of built up sorrow clogging his throat? “We took over the syndicate.” He says to the walls.
“What’s that got to do with me? Bruno said we could leave. I told you not to look for me!”
“Yeah, yeah I know.” Guido looks at a painting of the countryside. It doesn’t look like any place he’s been but it looks so serene. He wishes he was there instead.
“So, again, why are you here?” Fugo’s voice starts to raise, he’s angry. Guido understands that, he’s a little angry too, he thinks. He doesn’t want to do this. Not after seeing him living a normal life, not after seeing that he’s moving on.
“I’ve got orders,”
“From who?”
“Boss,”
“Who’s the boss?”
“Uh, Giorno. He’s the boss now.”
The air is thick and Guido looks around the room some more. He looks everywhere but at Fugo. He can’t bear to tell him but he knows Fugo knows. Bruno would never ask this of him. If Bruno did want to see Fugo again, while he was alive, he would have come himself. He would have at least sent Nara to butter him up to coming back or Leone to check in on him. Instead, there was Guido alone. They were all that was left of Bruno’s original gang. Before Giorno, before Trish, before the devil himself rose out of his throne to tear them apart.
He decides to focus on a map on the opposite wall from the painting before he continues.
“Gio, took control after we rid ourselves of that devil. Now he wants you back in the fold. Says the government is going to make a move and he wants you to help us stay clean.”
He can hear Fugo suck in a breath but before he can speak Guido continues.
“Look, I ain’t here to check in. I know you got a nice little setup here. It’s a nice town! People seem friendly enough but I’ve been given orders so—“
“Giorno is not my boss. And I renounced the syndicate when Bruno did. I may not have been with you all but I didn’t go back—“ Fugo chokes back what sounds like a sob, he must be choking on shame and sorrow too, Guido thinks. “I may not have been with you but I would never have betrayed you all by going back.”
Betrayal. He supposes that’s what he’s supposed to be feeling. Guido looks at his boots, the scuffs and scratches from his ride and hiking are clear as day, and thinks if he could see his own heart that’s what it would look like.
He thinks Fugo’s would look the same. Battered and bruised but still beating, still going despite it all.
“I got orders—“
“You keep saying that but you haven’t spit it out. So let it out already.”
Guido sighs. He hates this. He’s hated it since Giorno gave him the task. He’s hated it since he saddled his horse and rode into that first town. He’s hated it since he pulled into this one and his gut told him Fugo was here. He’s hated it since the ice dropped.
“You either come back or I shoot you dead.”
He thought he would feel better when the words left his lungs but he doesn’t. He feels the dread of them sink deep into his bones. He hears Fugo shuffle at the desk before he comes over and puts a hand on his shoulder. When their eyes finally meet Fugo’s usually strawberry red eyes are cold garnet.
“You better at least look me in the eye when you pull the trigger.”