A miracle had happened. The weather in Las Vegas had turned mild and broken a heat wave that had made it miserable to so much as think about what waited for residents outdoors. As such, the park was flooded with families, lovers, and those who just wanted to enjoy the rare occasion while it lasted. They knew that mother nature would not overlook this mistake for long. Smiling faces roamed the walkways and laughter filled the air as folks enjoyed good picnic food and better company.

One picnic table, though, was being given a suspiciously large berth by all who passed by. On any other day it might be due to respect for the two men sitting there, fear of their reputation, or their imposing appearance. Today their appearance suggested the wrong end of a car accident. Both had bloody injuries under thin wrappings of cloth and bruises starting to darken where life made it clear that a nice cup of coffee to start the morning just hadn't been in the cards. Despite this, the two had engaged in a comfortable talk in the sun while passing an unmarked bottle fresh from a dirty, brown bag back and forth. It smelled like turpentine and tasted like something left behind after a coal fire, but at least it cleared their heads and aided their attempts to ease their minds.

When they had first sat down, Raconteur had produced a deck of cards from his back pocket and started dealing hands against the priest to help calm his own nerves. He dealt awkwardly with his left hand having quickly realized how much the puncture wound on his right arm, wrapped in a scrap of checkered tablecloth, throbbed every time he moved it. They had settled in and finished the first half of the bottle quickly, both men relaxing in spite of themselves. Raconteur was glad that they were only playing for fun or his loose playing would have already put him in debt for a few thousand dollars. For a priest, Francis had the luck of the devil.

"One day I'm going to have to get a handle on my gambling. It'll get me in trouble if I play like this against someone less friendly than you." He took a swig from the bottle and scowled at the flavor. "Would it kill cowardly bums like that to at least get some decent liquor? If I'd known it was this bad I would have given him a few lumps on principle. Hell, I would have even preferred wine to this garbage." The cards had been dealt and he peered at his own. Queen high nothing. He sighed and shook his head, looking at the worn out man in front of him and trying to remember why he had come to Joe's this morning in the first place. Their dangerous interruption had pushed it from his mind until now and he knew it was important.

After a moment, thoughts of wine and gambling swirling in his head and mixing up into a cocktail of memories, he remembered that he had been intending to have a confession of sorts with Francis. He couldn't help but feel a bit sheepish asking now but at the same time he wondered if next time they might end up in an even less fitting situation. If there even is a next time, Raconteur reminded himself. You just never knew in this thing. "You still up for that talk I asked for back at the fair? I know it's been a long day already. I just can't get my mind off of a few things and we're not exactly rushing off anywhere."

Francis took to the bottle like a teenager. All bravado yet lacking the experience to know what was a normal swig, and how to adjust for stuff like this. Liquor dripped down his chin as he winced and let out a hearty sound. It was the kind you made in response to drinking something too damn strong, like the nasty concoction had a gut punch to it that caught you by surprise. And that's exactly how he felt. He wasn't unawares that this was how drinking could be though. He was a priest to the downtrodden at one point afterall. He was just damn inexperienced himself.

"Fuck, what is this crap?" He replied, agreeing with Raconteur's should've kicked that bum's ass for drinking this flith statement. But it's all they could find on short notice.

He let his words meet the level of rock bottom they were just above, like a bum sitting in a gutter somewhere. They weren't half far off. They had the right drink. The right level of what in the holy hell have I been up to. The difference being, they had shared company to keep each other upright.

The semi-retired priest placed the bottle on the table and studied his cards. A pair of sevens. He knew jack all about gambling, except that jacks weren't too shabby. Especially when they came in threes.

"Before we begin that talk again, I must ask what's with the cards. You seemed to be quite into that game back at Joe's. And here we are again."

Francis wanted to really say 'he seemed so into the game that it caused shit to go sideways', but he refrained himself from being so critical. Everyone had their vices. It just so happened that this one, on this day, kicked off a chain of events that neither would forget anytime soon. As long as their wounds needed tending to, at the very least. The scruffy looking Italian tightened a bit of cloth around his upper right thigh as those thoughts came and went.

Earlier that day...

Joe's Cup was for the most part a casual stop for coffee goers. It housed a large stock of books and had a quirky furniture setup, but otherwise it was just another spot to stop for what it offered the community. Sometimes it had events. Like musical guests, poets reciting their work and people wanting to reach others through the spoken word. And other times it also attracted a not so innocent crowd.

Las Vegas was teeming with underworld figures. From gangs that had a firm hold on the overall growth and development of the city itself, to nefarious outsiders looking to push into the market. The Durden gang was one such crew. They didn't care for the rules set by the city leaders. They'd spit in the face of them, if they could. Lowlifes with high pride. And today Joe's became just another stop on their haphazard crime spree.

If you compared the two in the park now to how they started out, you'd not have guessed their day would've gone so awry...

"Morning!" Francis said with a fat grin. He was eager to let his high spirit loose on the customers. His new found freedom outside the church gave him a pep in his step. He felt different. How exactly he couldn't say. And maybe this was a short lived thing, which he contemplated it being, the very night before. But he felt good and didn't want a future yet to come dampen his mood.

"Get us something off the menu. Bring a bottle and some glasses." The sour faced central figure demanded in a gruff as he removed his jacket. The pleasant mood in the place felt like it took a sharp turn, heading straight out the door as the group of five entered. All business. Silent, but purposeful. They took stock of the mostly empty coffee house and walked toward the furthest table from the front entrance.

A young couple seemed to feel the shift as much as Francis did, who's lively expression had also taken a dive. He was behind the counter preparing the days stock as they entered, making sure everything was available to make efficient work of the breakfast period. He now had a serious look on his face and although he went to task gathering some glasses and some bottles of wine, he never let them out of his awareness, keeping tabs as they moved throughout the place.

The couple seemed to sense the tension too, keeping an eye on their movements and lowering their voices. As the group passed their table, they went silent completely. Three of the men made it their duty to snicker and assert their dominant energy, glaring at the pair and making noises as they shuffled by.

But such was Joe's. Anything could happen here at any given time. And as the men seated themselves around the table and got comfortable, in entered a familiar face. A certain someone who Francis had met earlier and had since worked with on some small errands. It looked like he was making good on his promise to visit the out of uniform priest and take him up on his offer.

This morning...

Raconteur had finally come to make good on his request. His guilt had been smothered by how busy he'd been in the days following their discussion, but every now and again it got free and this morning was one of those times. He barely even acknowledged the Durdens as he walked past, though some part of him couldn't help but notice the effect their presence had on the place. It felt far too hostile for the comforting environment that had been so well built. He leaned on the counter and looked at Francis. "I would say good morning but I'm not sure either of us is feeling it at the moment. We're just too good at bad timing. Maybe we could have that talk, if only to make sure we're both here if anything happens. How do you start a confession anyways?" He looked back at the couple and saw the worry in their quick whispers to one another while the man glanced at the door as though he was considering escape. Just as a second couple arrived and joined their table, the man stood and left in a rush.

Raconteur had been worried that these innocent people might get caught up in the Durden's violence, but he had never dreamed he might be what set it off.

In the present he laid his cards down on the table and stopped while he thought about the couple that were there just before he got caught up in the game."It's a bad habit. My parents were both gamblers and I guess I inherited it." He looked at the hand in front of him and felt like he was looking at a list of his own sins. As long as there were other players at the table, he would have to show them sooner or later. He knew he was lying by omission to himself as much as he was to the ex-priest in front of him and he owed both better. "No, it's more than that. It's the rush of adrenaline and knowing that a few decisions and a little luck are the difference between coming out on top and losing everything. It's trusting your gut and going for it. It makes me feel alive the same way that our work does. Sometimes it's just easy to forget that the people who lose aren't always the players."

He flipped his first card over: a jack of clubs. He sits in silence for a moment before looking up and meeting Francis' eyes. "I wasn't lying about inheriting the gambling and risks. My father was the same way and it got him into a lot of trouble. Being with my mother was a gamble that went bad and forced him out of the old country. Her family was competition to his outfit and when they found out about her they gave him the chance to leave for my sake, since I was still little. He tried to get her to go with him, but she couldn't abandon the people who relied on her. He left and I was still too young to do jobs in this thing of ours so I stayed and took care of my mother until we were in a position to follow him. She never got the chance."

Between the bottle of liquor they were sharing, the game of cards unfolding and Raconteur's heart felt confession, Francis had a lot to take in. The park was also lively. A pair of birds flew down and landed in front of them. Small, quick things. They waddled about a moment, pecking at bits of what they likely believed to be food. Then darted off again, one after the other.

They fascinated the priest. Always had. Something about a birds natural, yet innocent life caught his attention. And whenever he let himself go and get caught up in their little world, he felt a little less of the troubles that were ever finding their way to him. America was supposed to be a new start. But it seemed it was all starting anew. His demons nipping at his heels. And just like back in Calabria, he found gangsters had a way of finding him too.

Earlier...

After the rowdy group settled themselves at their table, Francis had to tend to them. Just his luck. But luck was more than a bad roll of the dice. It sometimes came out as a necessary evil. Something to experience to grow from. A bit of dirt under the fingernails, and to harden the skin on the hands. And a thick skin was what usually came from life's little road bumps. Sometimes to be able to handle more, other times to build barriers from further hurt. The table he approached seemed like they'd had their fair share of shit shows. And their corresponding attitude was stinking up the joint.

Francis raised his eyebrows as he glanced at his new acquaintance. "I'll be back in a moment." Then with a bottle and some glasses he headed over to the stench. On the way he noticed one of the members grab a chair, flip it backwards and seat himself at a table with a couple. The chairs were all odd. None matching. This one looked a little too small for his frame. It didn't help he was also obese. Francis tried ignoring him and kept on towards the back.

"Vino and some glasses." Francesco said bluntly as he placed the kitchenware down on the table. Three men were present and had begun a card game. All were just as obnoxious as the next. They practically ignored the retired priest, caught up in their masculine shows of bravado, laughing and carrying on. After pouring the four drinks and placing the half full bottle down, Francis turned to leave.

As he started stepping away from the table a hand grabbed his forearm, stopping him in his tracks.

"Sit with us and have a game."

He made eye contact with Rac. A steady, purposeful, sharp look. Then turned and nodded at the man who's tight grip continued. His eyes. Full of darkness. That's a moment the priest wouldn't forget. That cold, absent set of dark browns. It spoke. In much more than words. It taunted with a language all its own. Of a body devoid of a soul. And what was left of his spirit was likely tied up in cage in some hellish pit somewhere. Tortured. Torturing itself. Ignorant that its physical body was playing out its fucked up loop of harm. Of self harm.

Francis got dragged into a seat. He grabbed at the cards that were slapped against his chest. For a moment he wished they were still laughing. An eerie energy blew through the place, just as a gust of wind helped itself through the now open front glass door as a mother walked in rolling a pram, oblivious to the situation unfolding. A regular at Joe's Cup. But maybe not after today..

Back at the park...

The once avid churchman took another sip of the hooch and let the silence widen. He knew Rac's pain. His obsession. The reasons behind it. Family was a part of everyone's story. Good or bad. It just so happened Francis knew the bad aswell. He winched and placed the bottle down next to his conversation partner. His leg was throbbing. The quick fix, a bit of cloth ripped from some poor ladies washing she had hung out, was cutting off some circulation to his right limb beyond his thigh. It was necessary though.

"So you inherited your father's gambling habit. I can see the thrill in it. But with all things in life, there is a cost." He picked up the pair of sevens and looked them over. He wasn't too interested in the cards though. His mind flicking back and forth from memories of today and his own child hood, his own story. As he sat there being a space for Raconteur to open up and sort out some past troubles, Francis was silently and inwardly reflecting on his own.

"Did you get to see your father again after he left?"

Pain was a funny sort of thing. A few weeks ago his grief over his father's untimely death nearly cost him his life. Now that grief had dulled to the point of Raconteur thinking himself foolish for ever having considered such a thing. "No. I left home after my mother's funeral and came to America but didn't have the money to make my way to my father. I stayed on the east coast and worked until I had a chance to go to see him but it was already too late. I found out that he had gotten in with a small family there and been killed about a day after he made his button."

Raconteur hesitated and took a deep breath. His voice was fraying at the edges but still firm. "He left me enough money to make my way to somewhere safer and a 1903 Colt that was half broken. I tried to repair the gun so I could chase down whoever did him in, but by the time I got done I realized that I wasn't grieving for him. He had hardly been around while I was a kid and he knew the risk  he was taking when he started working, same as us. I just couldn't stand losing the last thing I had that meant home. The last thing in this world that tied me to my mother." He turned over another card, this time a queen of hearts. It had not been the first time today he had thought of his mother. He quickly flipped another while trying to convince himself that the aching was just his bruises and nothing deeper. The two of spades sat uselessly alongside the others.

Earlier...

Two gunshots rang out as the two had ducked into cover. Raconteur had fallen behind the counter alongside Francis and looked down to see that the second bullet had ripped through his suit and torn out a bloody trough along his skin. If he'd been a second slower it would have been straight through his gut. Not a quick death, but probably a certain one in the circumstances. Fortunately, he only had to grit his teeth against the pain as he chanced a look over the counter and caught sight of the victim of the first bullet. The young woman who had entered the shop only minutes ago lay alongside a bloodstained pram, a hole in her chest where a stray shot from a Durden had shattered her heart. Raconteur sank back as he drew his own gun, feeling less than useless knowing that this was as much his fault as anyone. He had not intended to start a shootout with the Durdens. At least not where it put ordinary people at risk.

It had started with a bad decision as so many things do. The look from Francis had tipped him off that things were going poorly. Playing in their card game seemed like a way to embarrass them and drive them out without violence at the time. He hadn't expected to lose so badly or for Francis to be so damned lucky. He had pressed this development too hard and after several volleys of taunts had asked the Durdens what they thought Tyler would do when he heard they had blown the day's take. This proved too much for the men to bear and they drew weapons. He had smashed the near empty wine bottle over the head of the nearest man and kicked the table at the other two, not considering what havoc an errant gunshot might cause though it was plain before him now. His own wound had come from the Durden apart from the game who managed a rushed shot at the two mafioso as they dove for cover.

At the park...

Raconteur felt a stinging in his side as he pulled back from his cards and worried that his wound was pulling open again. He swore under his breath as he re-positioned a rag he grabbed at the coffee shop to put pressure on the graze. He had to remove his gun from its holster to get things arranged properly and set it on the table by his cards for the moment. "I can't help but look back and feel like I should have been able to do more in so many parts of my life. I should have been able to take care of my mother. I should have worked harder so I could get there in time to fight for my father." I should have taken a bullet instead of that kid's mom. Raconteur couldn't help but think to himself, however even in his mind it didn't ring completely true. He knew that if he and Francis had been shot the rest of the people would have been completely at the mercy of the gang. "I'm glad we managed though. I don't know what I would have done if I'd got a man of god gunned down."