Hit 'em and Forget 'em
Who: Aaron
Where: O'Malley territory
When: All of Jan 12th
Aaron had left Sam's apartment in a very good mood, despite, or perhaps because of her yelling. He had paused outside the door to light a smoke while he waited for a cab, and the doorman, who looked about to burst, struck up a conversation about the front page story in the paper. He appeared to be quite pleased that the corrupt officials in the city were going to get what was coming to them. The man actually seemed to think that there would be justice and good to come of it all.
Aaron kept him talking until he had everything that was in the paper and maybe a few guesses to go along with it. This was one of those times he wished like hell he could read for himself. Looked like it was just the Micks going down, but this would send ripples through the other families in the city. This was going to be a very busy day, full of anything but justice and good. A lot of people were going to die.
Later, when he returned home just before dawn, he reflected on the doorman's optimism in a rare moment of deep thought, probably born of the kind of tiredness that makes the bones ache and the clear evidence of the deeds of the day in wounds, stains, and smells that wouldn't let him sleep just yet. Aaron removed his shirt, which had been fresh and neatly pressed when he joined up with the Barteluccis. It was splattered with mud and blood, so he carried it to the sink, scrubbing at each stain as he thought about the justice of it.
He was passed over for playing the role of a revenuer because of the marks of his recent adventures, both business and pleasure, and had to wait in the warehouse with a couple of guys who didn't speak English until they brought the 'arrested' O'Malley bootlegger in. The stain up the inside of the left sleeve had come from slamming a carriage bolt through the center of the cross tattooed on the man's hand. They'd strapped his arm to a saw horse and it had taken two good hard blows with a mallet to get all the way through. The guy would probably never use that hand again, and threatening to do the same with the other had him giving up the location of every still he'd ever picked up a load from. It had felt good, but Aaron knew that even though that man was no more a saint than he was himself, it wasn't good or justice. It just was.
Mud, blood drops and mash splashed and splattered everywhere. Those were probably from the way he'd helped persuade a family of moonshiners to move and change allegiances by slamming the face of the eldest son repeatedly into a plank half buried in the small yard outside the shed that housed their still. There had been rage and hate in the faces of the younger men and shame and fear in the eyes of their father. It was no more bad or unjust than anything that would have happened if they really had been lawmen, though.
The pale orange-pink stain on the left sleeve had come from the steam burn on his arm. Aaron had always been very good at breaking things, but hadn't thought about the copper tubing between the parts of the still carrying evaporated alcohol. He'd smacked the top of a thump keg with a bat, knocking the tube loose and getting himself a nasty burn. The men who didn't speak English had taken the owners of that place away in the end. They'd probably be found in the river some time in the next few days. No justice there and never would be.
He might be able to save the shirt with scrubbing and bleach, but there was no mending the pants in a way that would make them look respectable again. The upper part of the leg had been sliced open by a half grown boy with a bowie knife. The wound he made wouldn't even need stitches, but Aaron had grabbed his arm and twisted, then kicked the boy hard enough to cause a sickening crack. He'd left him there, lying in the dirt, screaming. The kid had balls, but not the brains to match. Aaron hadn't killed him, so maybe he'd learn something. That was the closest to good he could see for anyone involved in the struggle.
The toll, as he was aware of it, was three stills relocated and taken over, two smashed and burned and their owners disappeared, three dead and one maimed O'Malley driver, two burned out bars and four with new suppliers. He didn't know the outcome of the brief shootout. Those things were always hard to judge when everyone was on the move. He did know the Barteluccis had lost a man he didn't know.
In the morning, men in expensive suits would hear of their gains and losses, not in terms of rage, spilled blood, cracking bones, or burned homes, but in dollars. They would decide if it was good or bad, but none of them would call it justice. More men in expensive suits would retire or resign from their jobs. Some would bluster, point fingers or lie to save themselves. Some would crusade and invoke justice to cover their own asses. Not one of them would get what they deserved, but then, if everybody got what they deserved, we'd be in a hell of a mess.
Some said of the fight overseas 'Rich man's war, poor man's fight'. He hadn't thought too much about it before, but that wasn't just war. It was everything. If it was good or just depended on who you were. Justice was like Santa Claus. A sweet story for those who hadn't learned the truth yet.
Within a week, there'd probably be new stills to replace the ones that were gone, if there were enough O'Malleys in that end of their operation alive to regroup and try to get back to full strength. Hell, they were tearing each other up so bad that they might even think they did this themselves.
By morning, when Aaron woke with his burn stinging, and his hands still smelling of bleach, he wouldn't remember that he'd come to the conclusion that good was relative and there was no such thing as justice. He got down the hall to the bathroom he shared with the guy in the other room, got showered, shaved, and dressed, and then off to meet his boss so they could talk about how good it all went.