Retaliatory Strike	 Retaliatory Strike by Voyagerbabe

 Author's webpage: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Starship/6102/home.html

 Author's disclaimer: 
There once was a group in Toronto, 
Who made the world's best TV show. 
People, wolves, places, and plot, 
All the rights they have got, 
But here I can do what I want to!

 Author's notes: Dedicated, as always, to the best list on line.
RedSuitsYou@onelist.com

  

 "I didn't mean it, Ray...I...I didn't know..." The word trailed off on a
pitiful, keening note, half a sob, half a plea. Frannie tucked her knees
up tighter against herself, the knee socks of her school uniform having
sagged around her ankles. Her hands stroked the soft plush fur of her old
stuffed rabbit in a soothing rhythm, no longer caring that only a week
ago, she had pronounced such things 'babyish.' 

 Ray shook his head sadly as he looked at Frannie. She seemed so fragile
curled up like that, her white blouse with it's peter pan collar rumpled
and tear stained, her hair having escaped in dark wisps from it's two
braids. Her olive skin was burning a hot red, both from her crying and
from the harsh scrubbing her face had received. Her wide, dark eyes looked
at him like a frightened deer, and he felt shame twist and stab inside
him. He should have been able to protect her better. He shouldn't have to
content himself with picking up the pieces. 

 Stepping inside her room, he climbed up beside her on the four-poster
bed, sliding over the pale pink comforter until he was close enough to
wrap his arms around her. She rested her head easily on his chest, and he
ran his fingers through her hair, rocking back and forth slightly just
like Ma did. "Hey," he whispered sternly, "it's not your fault." 

 "But Pop said..." He stopped, pushing her away just enough to look her in
the face. 

 "I don't give a damn what Pop said." His use of even the mild swear word
drew a gasp from his sister. 

 "Pop's gonna wash your mouth out!" 

 Ray shrugged. "Let him try." The words were brave, but inwardly, Ray knew
that he was just as afraid of their father as Frannie was. Of course,
today had been her turn to taste the majority of the fear. 

 His fists clenched as he remembered, and he fought the temptation to go
and pound his father good...or at least try. But he knew better. The one
and only time he had hit the old man back, he'd been gifted with a
sprained wrist as the result. It was a vicious chain. When their father
was breathing, he was drunk, when he was drunk, he was hot-tempered, when
he was hot-tempered, he was violent, and when he was violent, he was
strong. The last link in that chain was the worst. When he was strong, one
of them usually ended up crying. 

 More and more, that victim had been Frannie, and it turned Ray's stomach
every time he came home to find his kid sister with tear stains on her
face and bruises on her arms. It hadn't been so bad when Pop had just hit
on him. Hell, he was the oldest son, he was supposed to take that kind of
thing. But he'd gotten too good at taking it. He'd stopped crying, and Pop
took that for sass. Frannie still cried. She cried even before she was
hit, cowering down and pleading with him not to do it. Sometimes he
listened. More often, he didn't. The uncertainty was just enough that she
begged every time. 

 Ray's green eyes closed, as he projected his father's face on his mind's
eye. *Bastard*, he thought, *filthy, baby-beating bastard.* "I won't let
him hurt you again, Frannie," he whispered, "I promise." 

 This time had been the worst in a long time. For this time, Frannie's
'offense' hadn't been something as 'simple' as dropping a glass of water
or forgetting to let the cat out. She had 'disgraced the family.' His
little eleven-year-old sister had gone to school that day wearing mascara,
nail polish, and lip gloss. Ray knew it was done in all innocence. He knew
his sister. All her life, she had been fascinated with everything
glamorous and beautiful, dreaming of being a model or a movie star. When
another girl in her class had begun to experiment with makeup, it was only
natural that Frannie would see it as a green light. 

 It hadn't even been a lot of makeup. Ray had walked to school with her
like he always did, and he hadn't noticed a thing. Of course, he was a
guy, and guys didn't tend to notice subtle changes about girls too well,
but it wasn't as if she'd painted her lips scarlet or anything. Once she
had pointed it out to him, he had just seen a kind of pinkish shiny look
to her lips, a sparkle to her nails, and the mascara had made her already
long, dark lashes seem a bit lusher. He'd teased her a little about it,
but it hadn't seemed like that big a deal. 

 Until he got home. 

 He was a few minutes behind Frannie, having stopped to talk briefly with
Frankie Zuko at the end of the driveway. They'd arranged to meet later for
a game of pickup basketball in front of Frankie's house, but they'd never
settled on a time. Ray had been interrupted by a shrill cry from the
house, and his green eyes had locked briefly in horror with Frankie's.
Frannie had screamed, and he could see in the other boy's dark eyes the
recognition of a brother's fear for a sister's safety. 

 Not bothering to say goodbye, he'd dashed into the house, only to find an
all-too-familiar sight. Frannie was huddled in a fetal position against
the wall in the entryway, their father standing over her, enraged. He was
yelling something about her makeup. Still keeping her hands tight over her
head, the little girl looked up through wide, terrified eyes, her voice a
plaintive whimper. "Daniella..." 

 "Daniella! Do you think I give a shit what Daniella does? The entire
Bellini family can screw themselves for all I care! I'm not going to have
my daughter going to school looking like a whore!" His words were slightly
slurred, and Ray felt a familiar chill in the pit of his stomach. 

 Their father reached down, grabbing Frannie by the arm and wrenching to
her feet. She let out another scream of fright, but he responded by taking
her other arm and shaking her until her head bobbed back and forth as if
it were about to fly off her tiny body all together. "Shut the hell up!
You keep your mouth shut, you hear?!" 

 Biting her lip, she nodded. With a satisfied grunt, Pop hauled her
towards the bathroom. Unsure of what was going to happen, Ray followed
close behind. His father hadn't even registered his presence yet, and he
supposed that was a good thing in a way. 

 When they reached the bathroom, he threw Frannie harshly up against the
sink, ripping a washcloth off the towel bar and throwing it into the basin
in front of her. "Wash that shit off your face!" 

 Her hands trembling, Frannie grabbed for the soap. In her haste, the
slippery bar shot between her fingers, sliding across the countertop and
onto the floor. She reached to get it, but her father was faster.
Snatching away the cloth, he had rubbed it against the bar of soap,
forming a thick lather on the terrycloth. 

 His weight pinning his daughter helplessly to the sink, he began to scrub
her face. "You little bitch!! I can't believe it!! A Vecchio dressing like
a damned whore! What the hell is wrong with you, Frannie? A whore and a
slut, a goddamn slut at eleven! You make me sick!! Absolutely sick!!" He
scrubbed hard, the cloth completely covering her features, allowing no
sounds to escape except a desperate whimpering. 

 Ray felt something cold clutch his heart as Frannie's little hands came
up and attempted to pry his fingers away, and he felt like screaming. She
couldn't breathe. Pop's huge palm completely covered her nose and mouth as
he rubbed, and between his hand and the wet cloth, his sister couldn't
breathe. The words repeated over and over in his head, finally bursting
angrily out his mouth. "Stop it, you son of a bitch, you're smothering
her!!" 

 It had earned him a belt on the mouth and a split lip, the new target of
Pop's rage. But it had given Frannie time to squirm away and run up to her
room, to escape. Ray had prayed that the old man wouldn't follow her, and
for once, the guy upstairs seemed to be listening. He'd been hit again,
and yelled at a lot, but finally, Pop had just announced that the
"goddamned kids" weren't worth it, and had gone out. 

 Now Ray was in his sister's room, in her sanctuary, trying to find a way
to do something more than simply be a diversion. Right now, all he could
do was hold her, and he did, rocking and soothing until she finally
drifted off into a fitful sleep. Laying her down on the bed, he covered
her with the fluffy lavender afghan that lay at the foot of the bed,
tucking her rabbit in the crook of her arm. 

 Looking at her sleeping like that, Ray felt suddenly nauseous. He had to
get out. Had to get out of this place where not even a sweet - ok...sweet,
annoying and whiny - little girl was safe. Had to just run out the door,
not even bothering to take his coat. Had to find a ball and find Frankie
and pound the shit out of his fear, basket after basket. 

 The two boys had a strange relationship: mutual contempt occasionally
bordering on hatred yet sometimes, with the solid competition of a
basketball between them, they would find themselves in the middle of
surprisingly deep conversations, startled to discover common ground. On
one hand, Frankie was the ruthless son of an equally ruthless mob family,
while Ray the oddly sensitive son of a penny-ante drunk. Yet both had
fathers to fear and sisters to protect, both hated math and thought John
Travolta was the definition of cool. Sometimes, that was enough to patch
things together in an hour of sweat. 

 Tonight was one of the nights it was enough. For almost half an hour,
they just played. The game was one-on-one, hard and fast ball. Frankie was
shorter and over a year younger, but he was fast, and he had been playing
since he was a small boy. He was thus an even match for the much taller
Ray, who had only been playing for a little over a year. Before that, he
had avoided the court, uncomfortably aware of being not only clumsy with a
ball, but the shortest and chubbiest kid in the group. Puberty and a
growth spurt had handled the height problem, and stretched out some of
that baby fat, and suddenly, Ray was the third-tallest guy on the
playground, and basketball didn't seem so ridiculous. He'd taken to it
like a duck to water, and at fifteen, the clumsiness had vanished in a
smooth grace, the former padding having dwindled to a slight belly that
was quickly melting into his newly-lanky build. 

 Dodging, dribbling, weaving and shooting, the time passed in a blur of
sweat and baskets, the ball thudding against the pavement like the beating
of their hearts. Frankie played a bit rough, as was his usual style, but
this time Ray matched him shove for shove, accidental collision for
accidental collision. He played like a demon, breathing like bellows, not
feeling or caring when he stumbled and fell, peeling both palms against
the pavement. He could see a tinge of fear in Frankie's eyes as he
continued to virtually assault the court with the blood-tinged ball, and
Ray welcomed that fear. He needed SOMEONE to fear him, even if it was just
Frankie Zuko, and even if it was just a for a few minutes. 

 By the time they stopped to accept a glass of the lemonade Mrs. Zuko was
offering, both boys were dripping sweat, the score standing 20-22 in Ray's
favor. Frankie regarded his opponent through narrowed eyes as Ray guzzled
the tart liquid. "Your old man was pretty pissed tonight." 

 It was a matter of fact statement, not a question, and Ray didn't pretend
it wasn't true. "Yeah. The son of a bitch went after Frannie." 

 Frankie shook his head, but clapped him approvingly on the shoulder.
"Hey, man, you did what you had to do." 

 Ray looked at him oddly. "Huh?" 

 "You took care of her, right?" Frankie tapped his cheekbone, and Ray
frowned, then reached to his own. He winced as he felt the swelling there,
knowing Pop's fist had left a bruise. "Didn't let him do nothin', didja?" 

 Ray said nothing in reply, just turned away, swirling the ice in his
glass. Finally, he spoke, his voice tight with anger. "He laughed at me,
Frankie. He dared me to call the cops on him, they couldn't do nothin',
cuz we're his kids, and he can punish us however the hell he wants." 

 Frankie's eyes narrowed. "That true, Ray?" 

 "I dunno," He admitted, "guess so. I mean, Frannie and I ain't the only
kids who're putting up with this. You an' Irene -- " 

 "Hey!" Frankie's dark eye blazed indignation as he stabbed a finger at
Ray, "You don't know nothin' bout my sister, Vecchio!" 

 "Whatever." Ray felt suddenly old, suddenly far too weary to argue the
point. Frankie was so stupid about Irene. She was two years older than he
was, six months older than Ray himself, and a girl that strong and that
beautiful didn't need protection from any stupid little brother. It wasn't
like he and Frannie, where she was the little one who really DID need
watching out for. Irene...Irene was incredible. But she still wore the
long sleeves and the dark glasses occasionally, just like the other girls.
It was a dark secret in this neighborhood, one you didn't have to look too
hard at all to find. Hell, any casual observer could see it if they were
willing to admit it. 

 Which had to mean his Pop was right. He could do whatever he wanted to,
because they were his kids. Frannie and Ray and Maria - lucky, lucky, gone
to college Maria - were damned to be his kids. 

 Closing his eyes, he learned his forehead up against the side of the
garage on which the hoop was mounted. He just wanted to see some kind of
justice. Not just hitting back, either. He wanted to see his father
really, and truly punished. Ray wanted him to die an old man, bitter and
alone in jail somewhere, with everyone knowing what scum he was. He wanted
he and Frannie to someday be able to look back and laugh at him, laugh at
how finally, he was the one who couldn't do shit about anything. He wanted
to put him away for the rest of his life, to do it personally, be the cop
who finally opened his eyes and saw the bruises on the kids arms.... 

 His eyes flew open, and he turned back to Frankie. "Hey, Frankie, whaddya
think about my being a cop?" 

 Lemonade nearly hit Ray in the face as Frankie spit out his mouthful in
surprise. "You're jokin', right?? A cop? From this neighborhood?" He
laughed. "Good one, Ray. C'mon." He tossed the ball, Ray barely catching
it as Frankie dropped back into a playing stance. 

 The game resumed, fast and furious as before, and though Ray played well,
his mind wasn't on it. It was racing on the wings of an epiphany. He knew
now, knew with a clarity that was almost frightening exactly what he was
going to do with his life. 

 He was gonna be a cop. 

 His father hated cops. 

 THE END