Fading Away: Dark Bay

By Gaius Konstantine

"What had I become? How did I go from peddling girly magazines and beer to murder without noticing it? Apparently, it was easy, and I did it with my eyes wide open, slowly at first, then all at once. All I ever really wanted was to be free to live my life and be happy. But now it was all gone."

Set in 1980s New York, Fading Away: Dark Bay is a first person tale of a man who finds himself a key player of the Mafia's pivotal moments. 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gaius Konstantine
• Release date: Mar 21, 2025
• ISBN: 9798230894766

Gaius Konstantine

Books are like movies for the mind; however, great books are something more—they're magic. As far back as I can remember, I loved to read. I recall how wonderful I felt when I was young and realized I had learned how to do it. These days, I hover around the literary world, mostly writing reviews, and it's sweet to do something I enjoy. So I figured, why stop there? I've been to many places and seen many things. Why not create stories to share from some of those experiences? Fading Away: Dark Bay is my first novel. (Yes, it's a work of fiction, but not entirely). Hopefully, it won't be my last.

Book preview

Prologue

All I ever wanted was the freedom to live on my terms and not be forced into conforming to the hypocritical expectations of others. But it turns out that everything we want and desire comes at a price. That price was my very self. Today, I’m not sure who or what I am anymore; I only know who I used to be.

In the present, I could be anyone. I could walk right past you, and you wouldn’t even notice me—unless I wanted you to. That cloak of anonymity is my superpower. Like a chameleon, I can blend in with my surroundings and the people around me. It’s merely a survival skill I acquired over the years, nothing more, nothing less, but it came at a great personal cost.

I consider myself lucky, however, because I’m still here to tell my story. Others were not as fortunate—they are long gone. I know this because I’m the one who killed them.

Here is my story, then. It may not make much sense, but sometimes, neither does life.

Chapter 1

(The Beginning)

MY EARLIEST CLEAR MEMORIES are from when I was six years old. I lived in a remote mountain village of about twelve hundred inhabitants in the old country with my grandparents. It was a picturesque little town dominated by a beautiful old church at its highest point, and where tile-roofed houses with chimneys dotted the sides of a hill. To the north and east, I could see taller, more forbidding mountains, while to the south, green, tree-covered hills formed the landscape. To the west, just a few miles away, I could make out the shining blue waters of a calm sea.

This was the kind of farming town where donkeys and horses roamed the streets alongside the occasional pick-up truck, and roosters crowed in the mornings. It was the type of village where the chickens really did cross the road, occasionally accompanied by a goat, lamb, or pig. In retrospect, it wasn't a bad place to live, especially for a child. I had plenty of fun there, being wild and engaging in typical boy adventures. However, I wasn't truly happy. The issue didn't lie in my everyday activities; it was something else. No, the thing that vexed me was my father and mother.

Everyone I knew told me the same story that my mother had left for the United States and abandoned me. My father, a single dad in the 1960s, didn't know how to dress in good taste or match a pair of socks, much less raise a son, so I got shipped off to grandma and grandpa while he stayed in the capital whoring around and being an all-around jackass. To his credit, though, I did get to see him a couple of times a year. You know, for the holidays and stuff.

Then, it was time to start school. I remember being pretty excited at the prospect of entering the first grade as now I would have a chance to goof around with a bigger crowd instead of the half-dozen friends (or so) that I usually played with. Well, it didn't go exactly the way I thought. First, the teachers were not amused with my antics, and I quickly got introduced to the wrong end of their switches and rulers. Then, just as I was perfecting and balancing the art of staying under their radar, Dad decided I needed a real education, not the provincial version.

After completing half of the first grade, I got shipped off to my godfather's family in the capital. My father (being the ever-unpredictable joker he was) decided to enroll me in a private school. (I'm guessing the reason for that decision was bragging rights, but I can't be sure). All I know is that the private institution was even less tolerant of my hijinks than the public school, and the only way for me to save my ass from constant beatings was to crack open the books. Imagine my dismay when it turned out that I was smart and started getting good marks.

Six months later, after an all-night drinking and card-playing binge, my godfather died. Worse than dying, though, he had the bad taste to do it in front of his wife, five-year-old daughter, and me. His daughter (my cousin) and I were playing when the doorbell rang. My aunt went to open the door, and the two of us flanked her on either side like puppies. That was the last day I saw him. He struggled to walk up the few steps as my father supported him. He reached out his hand, started to say his wife's name, and (before he could finish) dropped like a sack of potatoes. My dad, who was not used to nor had experience with such situations, called a taxi to get his brother to the hospital. My godfather was dead on arrival.

The funeral was a few days later, and the whole family had gathered at my aunt's house before the ceremony. Everyone was crying, I remember that. Well, almost everyone, for some reason I wasn't. Instead, I was observing and trying to understand why they all had lost control of themselves. I knew what death meant, but I couldn't generate the same emotional response as everyone else. Besides, I was also checking out the house, my aunt and her husband, and her two kids (a twelve-year-old girl and a seventeen-year-old wanna-be hippy boy) because this was where I would be living next.

Over the next year and a half, I experienced stability and some independence. I also experienced something new: someone who doted on me and took good care of me, my father’s new fiancée, Eva.

She was an average-looking woman who wore glasses and was very well off financially. More importantly, whenever she was around me, she was kind. She often took me along with her to shop at department stores and lavished me with expensive clothes and toys.  It was also Eva who introduced me to board games such as Stratego and Admiral, and she took the time to play with me. My father, not wanting to be left out, introduced me to chess. Back then, I sucked at the games, but Eva let me win; my father did not. That’s okay, though, because I eventually became a formidable chess player.

Even though I was only seven, I had my own set of keys to the house. I walked alone to school in the mornings and came home in the afternoon to a usually empty house. My aunt had a shop nearby, and my father owned a popular nightspot on the same block, so I visited them often. The house was cozy and modern, with a full-length mirror in one of the rooms. I remember that because I spent hours in front of that mirror just staring at my reflection, wondering who it was staring back at me.

Chapter 2

(Easter Surprise)

EASTER WAS A BIG DEAL in the old country. The people and place were very religious, God-fearing Christians who thought they could get to heaven by attending church on Sundays and holidays. Never mind that, like most everyone, they were a wretched lot the rest of the year. For me, as an eight-year-old in 1972, Easter meant a couple of weeks off from school, and that was reason enough to be happy.

But this particular year, something unexpected was about to happen. A few weeks before the holiday, my dad stopped by to see me for a chat. My father was not gifted with eloquence whenever he was uncomfortable, so the conversation was somewhat awkward and blunt.

Your mother is coming to visit. She wants to see you.

I looked at my father like he had two heads as he spoke, trying to understand why someone who abandoned me five years earlier would want to see me. I wasn't mad or hurt, mind you, just confused. My dad, seeing there was no verbal response from me, continued.

And she's bringing your sister.

Now, that got a rare response out of me.

I have a sister? How come I didn't know that?

I don't know what the look on the old man's face was as he replied; maybe it was amusement, maybe discomfort.

You knew. You just forgot because you haven't seen her in five years.

Okay, fair enough. The thing is that while I may have been a strange kid at that age, I wasn't stupid. I let the conversation end with a shrug. As I walked away to do whatever disinterested eight-year-old kids do when adults talk about things they don't want to hear, I wondered why no one mentioned her all this time. My father, aunts, uncles, and cousins brought up my mom often enough, but not once do I recall any of them talking about my sister.

Two weeks later, I met them. My mom seemed nice enough (though a bit nervous) and was a nice-looking, slightly heavy-set woman about thirty years old. That meant she was about ten years younger than my dad. She was a bit too touchy-feely for my tastes, though, constantly hugging and kissing me while speaking to me in a voice dripping with sugar. I wasn't used to that. My sister, on the other hand, thrilled me. Being only fifteen months older than me, we got along famously, and our sibling bonding reached unprecedented heights when she introduced me to M&Ms.

She had a gigantic bag of them with her. And while the candy was okay (she had plain, not peanut), the M&Ms made for perfect projectiles. I stayed with them at their Hotel on the third floor, and my sister and I decided that any pedestrians walking below the balcony were fair game for a candy barrage. I was convinced instantly. This beautiful blue-eyed girl with wavy hair was my flesh and blood.

Of course, we did not target just anyone with our candy bombs. No, my sister and I preferred bald men as targets because there was a clear and distinct spot to aim for. I remember how confused my mom was when the three of us stepped out of the hotel lobby, and she saw the sidewalk carpeted with M&Ms - as my Sister and I giggled at our little secret.

Apart from mom being overly emotional all the time for reasons I couldn't grasp, I had a nice time staying with her and my sister, but soon it was time for them to return to America. We said our goodbyes, and I put them out of my mind as school resumed.

They say no good deed goes unpunished. Sure enough, that's true. It's only the method of punishment and recipient that is in question. Well, in this case, it turned out to be me. My mother hadn't been gone a month when dad dropped by for another chat. After a short, one-sided conversation, he informed me that since my mom was considerate enough to visit us, we would return the favor in the summer. I thought about that a bit and saw no reason to object. Hanging out with my sister again sounded like a great idea.

I had no idea what I was getting into and what would happen.

Chapter 3

(Brooklyn family)

TEN HOURS SITTING IN an airplane seat is difficult for a normal kid. It was torture for me. At least when I traveled by bus, I could look out the window and enjoy the changing scenery. However, in the sky, flying above the clouds, the view was monotonous. There was a forgettable in-flight movie that kept me occupied for a little while, but other than that, I had nothing to do but try to sleep (which was nearly impossible for me) or chat with my dad.

As strange as it sounds, my father and I talked more on that flight than we had throughout my entire life. However, our conversation was superficial and mainly focused on his portrayal of America as a land of milk and honey. He went on and on about what he thought were fascinating topics for an almost nine-year-old, like the impressive fact that even the smallest hamlets in the U.S. had electricity and refrigerators in every house. Given that the village where I grew up with my grandparents didn't get electricity until 1970, I guess I was supposed to be impressed; I wasn't.

Once the plane landed and we cleared customs, I bolted through JFK airport like a raving lunatic. I was so thrilled to be free from that airplane seat that I didn't notice the touchy-feely lady until her arms wrapped around me. It was impossible to extricate myself from her hugs and kisses, so I endured until I caught sight of my sister. Once I saw my mischievous other half, I had both the incentive and pretext to break away from the hug-happy lady that was my mom. It wasn't that I disliked her or anything like that; I didn't really know or feel a connection with her. Besides, I was never that big on overly emotional displays, especially from grown-ups. I thought it made them look silly and weird (and Lord knows they were strange enough when they behaved).

We left the airport and headed to my Mom's apartment in the Gravesend section of Brooklyn, a one-bedroom flat located on East 17th Street between Avenues S and T. Sure enough, the apartment had electricity and a refrigerator. (Yeah, that's sarcasm. The village in the old country may have been behind, but the capital city was just a smaller version of New York City. It also had houses with 20th-century conveniences). After we sat down, my hug-happy, touchy-feely mom asked if I wanted something to drink, and that's when I realized trouble was on the horizon.

Sure, a cup of coffee would be nice, I replied.

From her reaction, you would have thought I murdered her dog (if she had one).

What? Coffee? You're eight years old, you can't have coffee. How about a nice glass of milk instead?

First of all, I was almost nine, thank you very much. And second, barf! I hate milk. It goes right through me. Besides, I had been drinking coffee for years. Why couldn't I have a cup after a long and exhausting flight? Well, it turns out it didn't matter what I wanted or thought; she was the mom, and it was her rules or tough luck, little punk. Even worse, this set a pattern that would be repeated to devastating effect shortly. I declined the milk and settled for a glass of water before disappearing into the bedroom with my sister, the only sane person in the apartment.

The rest of August was a whirlwind of trips and visits, the highlight of which was meeting and spending time with an entire collection of aunts, uncles, and cousins that I didn't know existed. They were my mother's side of the family. (Being introduced to these people was not as straightforward as it should have been for me. My father and his family had never spoken about them, and I had grown up thinking that, except my mother, all my relatives were back in the old country).

There was the pretty aunt and her normal husband with their potato-chip-eating dog and three kids (two boys slightly older than me and one girl a little younger). I liked that family, especially my aunt.

Then there was the quiet uncle with the somewhat pretty but witch-like wife (who could not cook to save her life) and their kids (two girls and one boy, all younger than me). Kat, the oldest girl, was my favorite from that group, and if we weren’t cousins, we would have still been close anyway.

Next were the older uncle with the I'm the boss attitude and his bat-shit-crazy wife. They had two kids (an older girl and a younger boy). That whole group seemed weird to me.

And finally, there was the much older aunt with the ancient husband, half-dozen furry cats, and her three kids (two girls and one boy, all considerably older than me). They were nice, especially the cats and my cousin John.

All the families lived within one mile of each other, and rounding out this peculiar tribe was my mother's mom (my grandma). That confused me as I thought people only got one set of grandparents, and the only grandma I knew was back in the village playing with the light switch now that she had electricity. Grandma in America was kind to me, though, and spoke of shared times in the past that I could not remember. This grandma got passed around from family to family on a rotating basis, though my arrival disrupted that.

Chapter 4

(Another surprise)

AUGUST PASSED QUICKLY enough, and I found a cure for my caffeine withdrawal - Coca-Cola. Now seriously, tell me grown-ups aren't screwed up. I couldn't drink coffee in America, but I could drink a Coke. Both had caffeine, but if you poured the soda on the hood of a car, it would eat through the paint. How does that make sense? It seemed arbitrary to me, as if parents made up obtuse and senseless rules only to go through the motions of parenting. I guess that was okay. Senseless rules may have been confusing, but parents often made other decisions that became big mistakes with long-term consequences.

As the month drew to a close, I realized school would be starting soon, and it would be time for me to go back and attend the fourth grade, so I asked my father when we would be leaving to go back home.

We're not leaving, he replied in his world-famous suave manner. (Yes, that's sarcasm again.)

What do you mean we're not leaving? I have to start school soon, I replied.

You can go to school here. Your mother and I have decided to remarry. We can be a family again; it will be for the best.

"The best for whom?" I thought to myself as I stared daggers at him. I knew enough about my father to realize something was up, and he wasn't giving it to me straight. Why would a woman who abandoned me want me to stick around forever? And why would my father give up his cushy day job at the state-run munitions plant, plus his profitable little nightspot, to stay here? And what about Eva? She and my father were engaged, and I had gotten close to her because she was very kind to me.

Was he doing it for me? Please, I was almost nine, but I wasn't stupid. Besides, I made it known very quickly that I did not want this, and if the old man had altruistic and noble motives, why lie? All the while we were there; he insisted this was just a visit. Something stank, and it was standing in front of me.

I was angry, confused, and scared. I cried that day, and that made me feel disgusted with myself. I believe people look stupid when they cry, and crying does not solve a thing. It's nothing more than being weak in my book, and I swore to myself to never let it happen again. In my short life, I had gone from living with my parents to my grandparents,