To my fellow outlaws, outcasts and misfits,
What a week!
First I was in Philly. Here’s a shot from 2am with the one and only Ken Glassing. Both photos by the amazing Jessica Kourkounis!
Then I wound up hanging with this guy. He said if I played my cards right I could be president of Berwyn, IL. Fingers crossed.
Never thought my “before” weight loss photo would be with an ex-president but here we are.
Thanks as always to the folks who just subscribed. Don’t forget you now have access to over a hundred stories in the archive. Check them out!
Been circling today’s story for a while and finally got it down on paper (the laptop.)
So without further ado, away we go!
The Duffy brothers weren’t bad people. They were just genetically opposed to doing things the legal way. They came from a long line of lucky delinquents.
Danny, the older one by three years and two felonies, drove like he’d stolen the car, which, technically, he had. Declan, the younger and more suspiciously introspective brother, stared out the window like he was trying to memorize every billboard in case they needed an alibi, which technically they would. Declan stared at his phone with disappointment, "No signal. No Waze. No directions."
They were headed north, away from Miami and the messy thing that happened with a casino vault, two fake IDs, and a guy named Chucho who really didn’t like being lied to, then tied up, then stolen from, like most people. But the Duffy Brothers prided themselves on the integrity of their crimes, robbing from the criminally rich, to give to the criminally poor, themselves.
Without a word, Declan punched his brother in the face. Without a reaction or turning, Danny stared ahead and asked, "What?"
"I gotta piss," Declan replied.
"Hold it until I figure out how to get back to the highway."
"I gotta go really bad."
"Fine," Danny said, "I'll pull over. Piss in the woods."
"No way," Declan said.
"I got no time for any of your weirdo shit, Declan. We're lost and we gotta keep moving."
"I'm pissing in a bathroom or on your face. Your call."
Danny knew Declan was serious because a year ago, non-coincidentally on Danny's birthday, Declan had indeed pissed in his older brother's face, which is also how Declan got the knife scar on his shoulder.
"What do you want me to do?" Danny shouted, "We been driving for thirty minutes in the wrong direction. And now look at this shit." They came to a dark dead end and looked over at pointed at a single lane bridge blocked by large orange cones and a flashing BRIDGE CLOSED sign.
"Go over the bridge," Declan said.
"Read the sign, Jackass. It's closed."
" We just robbed a casino and three cartel guys, and you're worried about going around a sign you fucking asshole. You know what? I'm gonna just piss in your face." Declan unbuckled his seat belt and torqued his hips toward his brother's face as he unzipped his pants, "Open wide buttercup, here comes free Gatorade."
Danny whipped out his .38 and put it right to the tip of his brother's pee shooter, "Sit down and lemme drive over this bridge. If we fall off and die I'll kill you."
Declan sat back down and zipped up as Danny whipped the car around the Bridge Closed sign. As he did, metal bars slammed down behind them like spikes preventing them from going backwards. Instinctively, Danny hit the gas and raced across the frail bridge, running over orange cones and more flashing warning signs. A large steel gate began to descend on the other side of the bridge, which if closed, would trap them with nowhere to flee but jump, and with tires full of cocaine, that was not their favorite option.
Danny pushed their 1968 Buick as fast as it could go, barely making it under the massive steel gate before it sheared off the roof the car.
Danny brought the car to a halt. Both brothers were out of breath, like they had sprinted across the rickety bridge.
"Pull up Waze and get us the fuck out of here," Danny shouted.
Declan raised his phone, "I still don't have any service."
Danny checked his, "Me neither. Fuck."
They stared out at a flashing yellow light that dangled above a quant two block sleepy small town main street with a one pump gas station and a diner that looked like it hadn’t changed since the Kennedy administration.
"Looks like we just landed in Mayberry. " Declan said.
"Might be a good place to lay low and cool out," Danny added.
"Or a good place to take over. Sleepy town like this. Two guys like us. We roll in, check out the lay of the land, make it our own little outpost. You wanna go back to Chicago and get treated like dogs or post up here and maybe live like kings?"
"We don't even know what "here" is," Danny replied.
"So fucking negative. And ugly."
It was late and the handful of businesses were all closed except for a tiny store front that had a red neon sign that flashed the words BAR OPEN.
"You still need to piss?" Danny asked.
"Yeah. But I need a drink more."
Danny parked the car, punched his brother in the face then headed into the bar.
The brothers pushed through the old door expecting sticky floors and a jukebox playing Skynyrd. Instead, they walked into a fever dream. The bar was packed. Lit up in sultry, deep reds, rich golds and neon greens, like a tiki lounge had crash-landed inside a prohibition speakeasy. There was a real roulette table getting heavy action at the far end with people two rows deep stacking chips on numbers. A woman in an evening gown blew smoke rings beside a guy in swim trunks and flip-flops. Some old guy made of wrinkles, and a gold Rolex was rocking a tux. A Rubenesque woman was in a bikini and heels was inhaling a thick line of coke in full view right on the bar. Along the walls were framed black and white photos of cities like New Orleans, Palermo, Chicago and St. Petersburg.
And then everything stopped.
The roulette wheel still spun, but no one looked at it. The needle on the record player kicking out Al Green skipped then just kept scratching. The bartender froze mid-shake on a martini for the bikini woman gacked on Yay Yo.
"Who the fuck are you two?" the bartender shouted over the throng of equally confused revelers.
"We're lost," Danny shouted back. Declan, the better looking of the two, realized the bar was staring back at his thick necked ogre looking brother, so he put on his best charming smile and added, "We thought we would pop in for a drink then get back on our way. But not before buying the whole place a round!"
A moment of silence then the place erupted in applause and cheers then everybody returned to their debauchery.
A woman emerged from the haze. She was in her forties with red hair, a white dress shirt unbuttoned to the middle of her chest, white pants, white heels and gold hoop earrings. She wedged herself between the two brothers then said, in a thick French accent, “Either you’re lost or you're the bravest bastards I’ve seen in years."
"Lost," Danny replied.
"And I need to piss," Declan added.
"I recommend the bathroom. Although Cosimo over there is no stranger to a hot stream of steamy piss cascading all over his wrinkled stupid face."
Declan, smart but also very stupid, replied, "Really?"
"No, sweety, not really. I just don't like Cosimo. So... you know what, the bathroom is right next to the white horse," she said and pointed to the large horse statue at the other end of the bar.
Declan headed off, leaving Danny alone with the strange French red head.
"My name is Margot," she said, "Even though you look like a caveman. I'm going to guess you're the brains of the two."
Danny was older, but Declan was smarter, at least book smarter. Declan was more charming, that was for sure, and at twenty-four, still had a baby face. Whereas Danny was twenty-eight but looked forty. His face was weathered and scared from being on the wrong end of too many clinched fists.
"I am the smarter one," Danny replied.
"Well then, Mr. Smart Guy, in about sixty seconds, a cop is gonna come barreling into this bar looking for you two."
"Why?" Danny asked, wondering how she knew about the job they pulled in Miami.
"Because you're not supposed to be here."
"You don't even know us. How do you know where we're supposed to be?"
She smiled and said, "Thirty seconds. Go into the bathroom, tell your partner and I'll be waiting out back. Or get arrested."
She left. Danny turned and stared out at the sea of bizarre strangers then made a B line to the bathroom.
"We gotta go," Danny shouted as he opened the bathroom window.
"I didn't go yet. This place creeps me out. Stage fright," Declan shouted from the stall.
"A cop is on his way."
Declan burst out of the stall and said, "Good luck fat boy," then leapt out the window. Danny crawled out and got stuck halfway through so Declan grabbed his brother's arms and yanked him out.
On cue, Margot raced up in a vintage candy apple red convertible MG. Delcan hopped up front, forcing Danny to squeeze into the tiny wedge behind the seats. They raced through the skinny single lane streets of this sleepy town. Moon light poured through the palm trees streaking the street in buttercream light. After speeding through the streets with her lights off, Margot whipped a hard right into a small gravel driveway next to a turquoise bungalow with white trim, a porch swing, and potted herbs by the front steps. Wind chimes danced softly in the breeze. A handmade sign over her door read: “Life’s Better Barefoot.”
Once inside, Danny and Declan sat on the sofa. Before they could pepper her with questions, Margot set out three glasses and filled them with whiskey.
Danny took a slow sip, letting it roll around on his tongue. Smooth. Definitely not cheap. He set the glass down, eyes narrowing a little.
“So,” he said casually, “what’s your angle?”
Margot didn’t turn. She was adjusting the jazz on the record player, her back to him, hips moving just slightly with the beat.
“My angle?”
“Yeah,” he said, glancing around again. “We come crashing into town like idiots in a stolen Buick, no cell service, bridge shuts behind us like a mousetrap. Then you swoop in and save us from the weirdest bar I’ve ever been in, bring us here, pour good whiskey, play better music… I mean, it’s nice. Real nice. So what's the angle?”
She finally turned, cradling her glass with both hands with seductive half-smile.
“Maybe I am just… kind.”
Danny laughed, "A woman who looks like you can't be kind. Maybe stupid, but not kind. Men have been trying to fuck you since you could spell, you either hate men, use them, or both."
She chuckled. “You’re so suspicious.”
“Only reason I'm alive.”
Margot stepped closer, so close he could smell her perfume, expensive, old-world, barely there.
“You remind me of someone,” she said. “That’s all.”
“Someone good or bad?”
She lifted her glass again, then with a wink, replied, “Both.”
"For the love of Christ," Declan said as he stood, "I'm gonna finally take a piss."
"Down the hall to the right," Margot replied, her eyes never leaving Danny.
Declan made it to the bathroom. It was small but very thoughtful, like everything in the house. The walls were pale pink, the tile floor a honeycomb mosaic. A brass faucet. Rolled hand towels in a little basket. A single framed sketch of a nude woman reclining on a couch, not in a sexy way, but like she’d just won a chess match.
Declan stepped up to the toilet, unzipped, and let the stream fly, groaning with joy.
When he was done, he stepped back into the hallway. The record player was still spinning something slow and breathy. He could hear Danny and Margot laughing, but the rest of the house was quiet. Because Danny looked like a plumber from the 30s, he always played wing man for Declan. So Declan decided to return the favor and give his older brother some time to maybe hook up for once.
So Declan wandered.
There was a bookshelf in the hallway: crime thrillers, cookbooks and a Russian novel tucked between two Nicholas Sparks paperbacks. On the top shelf was a ceramic bowl filled with keys. A lot of keys. Too many for one house. He turned a corner and found a door ajar. It was the garage door.
Declan stepped through the door into the dark. The garage smelled like fancy candles. A bare bulb buzzed and cast hard shadows over a golf cart, a paddle board, some storage bins and plastic Santa with a chipped face.
He spotted a freezer. Industrial. Square. Gunmetal gray. Humming softly. He popped the latch, lifted the lid and glanced down inside. It was filled with body parts wrapped in clear cellophane. Some labeled. Some not. A hand, half visible in the frost. A foot next to it, bones jutting through, that looked recent, mid-freeze.
“Danny...” Declan tried to shout, but came out in a choked terrified whisper, “Danny...”
And that’s when he heard the click and felt the cold steel barrel of a gun press into the back of his neck.
A low voice loaded with calm authority said, “Hands where I can see ‘em or I'm painting those body parts with your brains.”
Declan slowly raised his hands and pivoted. The man holding the gun was in his 50s, lean and wired tighter than his crew cut. He was also cop.
"Move it," the cop said, nudging Declan to go back into the house.
The cop herded him back into the living room where they saw Danny in his underpants, dancing for Margot, still in her dress, watching and smiling from the sofa.
The cop didn’t lower his weapon.
"Hands where I can see them Magic Mike," the cops shouted.
Danny whipped around, saw the cop, then turned red, half from embarrassment, half from rage. Then the cop turned to French woman in the red dress and said, “For fuck's sake, Irina. Knock it off."
"Who's Irina?" Danny asked, with his hands still up.
“Always ruining the moment, Cutter. You have no poetry," she replied, her thick French accent replaced with a crisp, perfect Russian one.
Danny turned toward her and said, “You’re not French?”
“Fuck you Fat Boy," she said then lit a cigarette.
"Get your pants on tubby," the cops said, "You're both coming with me."
The police station looked like a postcard from 1957. White clapboard siding. A bench swing on the porch. One single lonely cruiser parked out front.
Inside, it was all concrete floors, a single desk, and a map of the island town pinned with so many red dots it looked like it had chickenpox.
He poured himself a coffee and gestured for the Duffy brothers to sit across from him.
"Name's Roy Cutter. I'm the law on the island," Cutter said as he set down the most recent mugshots of the brothers, "And your Danny and Declan Duffy. Long rap sheets for burglaries. Strong armed robberies. Couple of wanna be tough guys from Chicago."
"How'd you get our records so fast?" Danny asked.
"Facial recognition software on both sides of the bridge," Cutter replied.
"Who cares about us. Go arrest the Russian lady with a freezer full of hands and feet," Declan chirped.
"Wait, what?" Danny said.
"Yeah, the lady you were shaking your fat ass was about to chop you up into ham steaks," Declan said.
“Margot was once the KGB’s top assassin. You might’ve heard of her as Irina Volkov. She defected around two thousand five after she dropped so many bodies she cleared the runway for Vladimir Putin. Just over a hundred murders. That we know about. But if I had to guess, I bet she did two hundred. Two hundred and two if I hadn't swooped in.
Danny crossed his arms and asked, “So what’s she doing in a beach house in a town with no exit?”
“That’s the part I need you to understand real clear,” Cutter said, “Our little island ain't on any map. All them signs you ignored and the bridge you shouldn'ta been able to get over, that I'm gonna have to lie about, is there to prevent you or anybody else from getting in, or any of our residents from getting out."
"This is a prison?" Declan asked.
“No. Starting in 1965, the United States Government created an island to house the world's most dangerous criminals, everybody from the US Mafia to the Mexican Cartels to the 'Ndrangheta from Calabria. We got gangsters, spies, hitmen (and women,) who helped take down criminal organizations or countries but couldn't go back into society. So good Uncle Sam built this paradise so they could live out the rest of their lives peacefully."
"Like the Witness Protection Program?" Danny asked.
"Like a Platinum Club Witness Protection Program," Cutter replied, refilling coffee.
Declan frowned. “So that bar... with the roulette table... the guy in the silk suit... the hot chick in the bikini doing bumps at the bar, they’re all...”
“Killers. Operatives. Some committed acts that would start world wars if the truth got out. But here? They drink. Gamble. Behave.”
"Sometimes shit happens," Cutter replied.
"Wait, you know she was chopping up bodies?" Danny asked.
"Nothing happens on this island without my say so. I say who gets killed and who doesn't. You see, people come in, but they never leave, and now that includes you two. You will do what I say, when I say, or it's into the freezer, or worse. Irina is actually the nicest killer on the island."
Out of nowhere, a huge explosion blew open the side of the station, stunning Cutter long enough for Danny and Declan to see a tiny old man in a perfectly pressed summer linen suit slowly and confidently strut through the settling dust.
"Evening Boys, my name is Cosimo. You can stay here and have this half a hard-on ruin your life, or you can come with me and finally have one."
Danny and Declan shared a quick glance then sprinted past Cosimo, who had a car running just outside. They hopped in the back and Cosimo got in the passenger seat.
As his driver hit the gas and screeched away, Cosimo turned around, smiled and said, "Welcome to Rumor Bay. It ain't so bad once you get used to it."
Much Love,
Mick
©MickBetancourt 2025
P.S.
Don’t worry. You’ll be seeing much more of The Duffy Brothers and Rumor Bay!
I can't wait to watch this show. Wow!!
Oh, I'm watching this.❤️