LOST
No More Strombolis

Mr. Scott was in big trouble, and he knew it. He sat at a simple, metal table in a plain, gray room, with a two-way mirror on one wall. The room was dark except for a bright light hanging above the table. Across from Mr. Scott stood two detectives—a black man and a white woman, both in grey suits. The man had a clean-shaven head and wore a badge on his belt and the woman had shoulder length, amber hair and wore her badge on a chain around her neck.

The man with a shaved head introduced himself, “Michael Faustini, I’m Detective Robles. This is my partner, Detective Alderman. We know all your aliases— Donnie Scott, Michael Scott, Donnie Faustini, ‘Made’ Mike… Do you have ties to the mob? Never mind. You can answer that in a minute. And lastly, Donnie the Jap. Now, that one, I don’t understand at all. You don’t look Japanese.” The detective looked at Mr. Scott, waiting for an answer, but Scott looked straight ahead blankly.

Robles picked up a piece of paper from the table, “This is quite a rap sheet you have here. Felony larseny, grand theft larseny, assault, assault with a deadly weapon.” He paused as he stared at Mr. Scott, trying to intimidate him. “Aren’t you a little dressed up for a common thug? Black suit, black tie. Are you going to a funeral? Or do you think you’re a Reservoir Dog, Mr. Scott? Oh, no, wait… they used colors. Which one are you? Mr. Blue? Mr. Blonde? I know…,” Robles grinned. “Mr. Pink. He’s the one that got away, right? Or did they shoot him as soon as he got outside?”

“This wasn’t a random mugging,” Detective Alderman said. “Was it? Nobody dresses up in a suit to mug someone. This was orchestrated. You don’t seem like the boss type. So, what’s your boss’s name?” Scott continued to ignore his interrogators.

Detective Robles sighed in frustration before continuing, “We’ve got your prints on the crowbar. We’ve got you for assault, at least. That’s four to six years. If you give us a name, maybe the DA will cut you a deal.”

Mr. Scott spoke for the first time since being arrested, “I want a lawyer.”

“Of course, you do.”

Michael Faustini, also known as Mr. Scott, lay on a metal bunk in a holding cell in the Charlotte Police Station as several thoughts ran through his head all at once, which was quite a feat for him. Even several thoughts was a handful too many for his brain to handle.

Did Mr. Trent get away? he thought. Will Mr. Di Corvo replace out if I rat them out? Will I be able to hide from the both of them if they make bail? Could I go into the Witness Protection Program? Would that even work against Mr. Di Corvo’s magic?

Perhaps, if he were able to have the lights off, he would be able to sleep. But this was a holding cell, not jail. And they didn’t make too many attempts to make the interrogated feel comfortable. As he tossed and turned on the stainless steel bed, he tried to force himself to think of something else, but the only other thing that kept coming to mind were the smells around him. He wasn’t sure which was worse—his fear of Mr. Di Corvo or the stink of old urine and vomit. He was leaning toward Mr. Di Corvo.

After hours of restlessness, he finally managed to focus on his memory of his Mama’s cooking. She probably wouldn’t even recognize him, two years removed from her dinner table and fifty pounds lighter, but he could definitely remember her strombolis. He closed his eyes and just as he was about to take a bite full of pepperoni, mozzarella, and soft crust, he felt air move across his face and heard feathers rustling. When he opened his eyes, the stromboli disappeared and in its place on his chest was a large, black bird. Startled, he immediately sat up.

“Oh, sh…” He was so scared he couldn’t even complete an expletive. The blackness of the bird contrasted sharply with the sterile white of the cell, making the raven that much more menacing. The bird shuffled forward, moving closer to Mr. Scott’s face. The raven let out a guttural caw and nearly made Mr. Scott jump out of his skin. The bird’s eyes glowed red with fury and if there was any question as to what the bird was doing there or how it got in the cell, there was no longer. Mr. Scott knew there was no hiding now. There was no Witness Protection Program. There were no more strombolis from Mama. This was no bird.

“Mr. Di Corvo… I’m sorry. I…”

Officer Wiggins grabbed his clipboard off the desk and took it to make his four o’clock rounds. He looked through the window into holding cell number one. A woman sat up against the wall, her arms wrapped around her knees, her head turned to the side and laying on them. He went to the next cell and looked through the window. A man was lying on the cot, apparently asleep. He was about to walk on to the next cell, but as he looked away from the window, he saw something out of the corner of his eye. He looked again through the window and saw what caught his eye—a small trickle of blood rolled down the side of the man’s arm and onto the floor. He lay facing the far wall, so Wiggins couldn’t see his face. He knocked hard on the door but the man did not move. He looked at his clipboard and saw that his name was Faustini.

“Faustini!” Faustini continued to lay, motionless, on his bunk. “Faustini!” Wiggins called louder. The man still did not move. Wiggins keyed his radio, “Thompson, unlock holding cell two, please.” After a few moments, the door to the cell made a mechanical whirring sound. Wiggins turned the handle and carefully entered the cell, with his hand on his baton, just in case.

“Faustini,” he said as he approached the bed with caution. “Are you okay?” but as soon as he asked, he saw and he knew that the man was not okay. Faustini’s eyes were wide open, bulging and bloodshot. There were dark bruises and deep scratches on his neck. A trail of blood ran from his mouth to his shoulder, arm and onto the floor.

“Code Blue, East Wing, holding cell two. Code Blue, East, holding cell two. Detainee down,” Wiggins called over the radio. He looked around for a rope or a belt—anything he could have strangled himself with—and found nothing.