Free Mercury Revolts by Robert Kroese

then passed out.

 
    Chapter Seven                   
    Milhaus, Texas; August 2016
     
    Mercury sat hunched over at the bar,
nursing a Guinness and shaking his head. “Just when I thought I was out,” he
muttered, “they pull me back in.”
    “ Godfather ,” grunted a beefy trucker sitting next to
him.
    Mercury turned to look at the man, who smiled sheepishly
back at him. Mercury slowly leaned over, looking the man in the eye, and said,
in a low, gravelly tone, “We’ve known each other many years, but this is the
first time you ever came to me for counsel or for help. I can’t remember the
last time that you invited me to your house for a cup of coffee, even though my
wife is godmother to your only child. But let’s be frank here. You never wanted
my friendship. And you were afraid to be in my debt.”
    The trucker’s eyes widened and he leaned away from Mercury.
“Wha…?” he started.
    “I understand,” Mercury continued, gesturing wildly with his
right hand while leaning on the bar with his left. “You found paradise in
America, you had a good trade, you made a good living.
The police protected you and there were courts of law. You didn’t need a friend
like me. But, now you come to me, and you say: ‘Don Corleone, give me justice.’
But you don’t ask with respect. You don’t offer friendship. You don’t even
think to call me Godfather. Instead, you come into my house on the day my
daughter is to be married, and you ask me to do murder for money.”
    “Oh, I get it,” said the trucker. “That’s pretty good.
You’re doing the—”
    Mercury shook his head ruefully, wagging his hand at the
man. “ Bonasera , Bonasera . What have I ever done to make you treat
me so disrespectfully? If you’d come to me in friendship, then this scum that
wounded your daughter would be suffering this very day. And if by chance an
honest man like yourself should make enemies, then
they would become my enemies. And then they would fear you.”
    The man got up, downed the rest of his beer, and backed
away.
    “Someday!” Mercury called after the
man, “And thatdaymaynevercome!” He paused for effect. “I’ll call upon you to do
a service for me. But until that day, accept this justice as a gift! On! My
daughter’s wedding day!” He let out a loud belch, and the patrons scattered
about the bar laughed nervously, as if they weren’t certain whether this was
the end of the performance or the beginning of something far worse.
    “Seen that movie three hundred times,” said Mercury to the
bartender.
    “Congratulations,” said the bartender, a dour old man.
“Sounds like you’ve led a full fucking life.”
    “You don’t know the half of it,” said Mercury. “The half of it.” He paused, mouthing the words to himself.
“Is that right? It doesn’t sound right. The half of it. Thehalfofit. Thehaffuvit.”
    “Jesus Christ, will you shut up?” growled a man further down
the bar. “I’m trying to watch this.” His eyes were on the TV screen overhead,
which was displaying a news report.
    A haggard, bearded man’s face filled the screen. “…spent
most of his years in a remote cabin in Idaho…” the newscaster was saying.
    “What’s this show about?” Mercury murmured to himself. Then
louder, to the man down the bar, “Hey, what’s this show about anyhow?”
    “It’s the news, you idiot,” the man replied. “They’re
talking about Chris Finlan.”
    “Who?” asked Mercury.
    “Shit, man, where have you been for the past six months?”
asked the bartender incredulously.
    Mercury shrugged. “Out of town?” he offered.
    “Off your ass, more like,” grumbled the man down the bar.
    “Chris Finlan,” said the bartender. “The
guy that sent all those letter bombs. They tracked him down to some
cabin in Idaho. Crazy motherfucker.”
    Mercury studied the leathery, hirsute image on the screen.
“Crazy motherfucker,” he repeated.
    The bartender handed a beer to the man down