FGI 7: The Siren Prisoner

“Jensen, are you paying attention?” my mother whispers in my ear as I watch my father interrogate my Uncle Tony from the balcony above in their underground warehouse.

A bright light illuminates him as my father’s men start to roll up their sleeves for the beating I know is to come.

I swallow, nodding my head.

“What do you see?” Bruna Di King, my psychologist mother, asks me. “Tell me the first thing you notice.”

My throat is dry. I saw Uncle Tony’s foot tapping under the table. Then my eyes go to his hand on the desk, his pinky finger bearing down into the metal—almost undetectably, but I notice.

He cocks his head to one side, then to the other as my gaze homes in on him. “He’s nervous.”

“Yes, Jensen,” my mom whispers back, and I can feel the smile in her tone. “But is it guilt? Or just nerves?”

I take a steady breath as I watch my father ask Uncle Tony questions. “I don’t know.”

But I do. My mother has been training me since I could tie my shoes, and now that I’m twelve, I know more than most people twice my age.

I like my Uncle Tony. He’s a hothead and impulsive—or so I’ve heard my father say many times. But I know he’s a good guy.

Tony has always treated me like family, bringing me ice cream on a hot day and ruffling up my hair when no one else did.

Sure, he hangs around with people my dad hates, but that does not make him a bad guy.

One day, he even let me look at his naked magazines, pointing out all things to look for in a woman and letting me have a cigarette afterward.

He said a woman like one in the magazine would make a man out of me one day, and I believed him.

Though I’ll never tell anyone, I had stolen a few when he was busy smoking a joint with his buddies in the kitchen. I circled my favorites with a bright red marker and kept them under my mattress.

The women were beautiful. I was enthralled. I liked those who were not smiling at the camera—the more serious ones who had angry expressions.

Maybe it was the training my mother had put me through all these years, but I liked the mystery, the secrets. I wanted to know what they were thinking and who they were. The urge to dig deep was consuming.

Their eyes captivated me. I would stare at them for longer than I should.

Yeah, I like Uncle Tony. He treats me like a human, like a friend—not a kid, but one of the guys. But don’t get me wrong; I have other connections.

My mother is caring, but very professional to the point where I think I’m not her child but her project. On a personal level, there is this distance that she never crosses. Or maybe she mentally can’t.

By observing her and analyzing her with the same skills she has taught me, I have realized that she is not maternal. So letting me into her world, training me, was her way of connecting with me.

Bruna points at Uncle Tony. “Ah, not enough to make a confident decision. Look for more, Jensen. What else do you see?”

I feel a trickle of sweat at the nape of my neck and say nothing. The disapproval in her tone is clear, and I hate to disappoint her.

“Jensen, you’re breaking the first rule. What is the first rule?”

I don’t like this. I don’t want to get Tony in trouble.

“Jensen,” she says firmly.

“Do not let emotions cloud your judgment,” I whisper, feeling sick.

“What else do you see?”

“I don’t want to do this, Bruna,” I plead, wanting to leave.

“What. Do. You. See?”

I grit my teeth as I look deeper.

“How many times did he use the word ‘um’?”

“Six.”

“His voice?”

“Loud and defensive—too high.”

“What of his eyes, Jensen?”

“He can’t keep contact.”

“What else?”

“His lips—he licks them too much.”

“Why is that?”

I take a moment, trying to be like Bruna and leave out emotions, my jaw clenching. “The nervous system.”

“Ah, yes, and what else does the nervous system cause in the guilty party?”

“Sweat.”

“Where?”

I close my eyes, then open them, watching Uncle Tony intently. After a few minutes, I whisper, “The upper lip.” I see a slight sheen catching the light when he turns his head to the right.

I release a breath as my father turns and walks toward us. His imposing form dwarfs most people. “Bruna, what do you say about our Tony?”

He relies on Bruna for all decision-making. She is the true puppet master, the brains to my dad’s brawn.

“Jensen will make the decision,” my mother says, replying to my father and giving me a command at the same time. She grips my neck, holding me in place.

I look up at her, knowing she can’t be serious. “No,” I said, barely able to whisper. My cheeks redden in embarrassment and shock.

I feel every stare on me, and I know I can’t lie. Bruna will know. My dad’s men smirk and snicker as they watch little Jensen King, heir to my dad’s casino kingdom, acting like a little bitch.

I feel every ragged breath, cursing my uncle for putting me in this spot.

I’ve never forgotten that day, for it traumatized me profoundly. Uncle Tony’s screams as they beat him to a pulp still haunt me from time to time.

Bruna made me watch, and when the spray of blood from the baseball bat hit half my face and shirt, my heart hardened.

My visions of Uncle Tony mostly come when I’m alone and drunk, when my mind unlocks buried memories without my consent.

Now, twenty years later, I have honed and perfected my talents, thanks to my dear sweet Bruna.

I have taken over Rau King’s Las Vegas empire by being as cunning as a fox, excelling to the top under Bruna’s careful tutelage.

Tony’s distant screams are now only a mere scratch, a ripple in time.

Means nothing now.

I take a hard pull on my cigar and lean back in my chair, looking around the dimly lit poker table in my private lounge at the Palms Casino.

Half the people sitting here are scared shitless, with their shifty eyes, while the other half have a mind to wear fucking sunglasses.

They don’t trust me. Sometimes I don’t trust myself, and I’m fine with that.

The lights flicker above my head as I watch these goons sweat over the thousands of dollars they will lose to me.

I smile, looking at each and every one of them, my eyes squinting as I blow out smoke, knowing I don’t have shit. But they all think I do, which is why I thrive at this.

Or they’re too scared to call my bluff. I have a pair of fives. I hold back a chuckle because no one can read my crazy.