Thirteen: Assessment

Angel Muerto tossed the Cadillac's keys into a small brass bowl. The bowl was on top of a battered banister. The banister, now repaired, was at the top of the steps of the Utica three-decker that the gang called a hideout. The keys rolled around the rim once, neatly, before settling at the bottom. He mused momentarily at the banister. It had broken when he had thrown Bulldog down the stairs all those weeks ago.

Another fool gone who couldn’t do his job. In his assessment, he’d seen far too many in the gang. He’d been stunned at how badly the books had looked in the month between Luis Colón’s death and his arrival in Utica. The gang had done next to no work, barely holding on to what they had under Colón. Bulldog should have been their teacher, expanded their ambitions, shown them how to be familia. Instead, he hadn’t cared about his profession.

Bulldog was dead now. Muerto certainly didn’t feel any remorse. He had set it up. The vigilante known as Spears had done it for him, and he had taped the whole attack from the dark corner of a ratty warehouse. The tape was now in the hands of his pet police officer, and Spears was either in jail or dead. All-in-all, not a bad way to wrap up his business in New York. He’d trimmed the fat from the Utica gang and pinned the blame on a misguided soul waging his own holy war.

Only the girl, Bebé, had been worth anything—young, ambitious, and eager to please. He hoped that she’d recover, and surprised himself that he felt anything at all for her. Perhaps he was getting softer as he grew older. After all, he hadn’t killed anyone in weeks.

He picked up the phone and dialed a long string of numbers. Back in Columbia, someone picked up. He said his last name and waited. The Cartel would ship up someone to replace him who would, he hoped, hire decent local talent and get the gang earning. Muerto was thankful it would not be him. The city was too small. It was turning cold, too.

Diego came on the line. Muerto started to speak, but Diego cut him off.

“What the hell is going on up there, Muerto?” his boss growled in Spanish. Muerto knew better than to stammer out an answer. He waited, but he felt his throat tighten.

“Do you know what happened to our shipment? Our two million dollar shipment? It just fucking blew up.”

He waited, painfully aware of the uselessness of his assessment.

“I thought you had things under control up there,” Diego continued “so I sent Morales up with a couple of mules. One guy was in a car. The other was driving a semi. Both seem to have vanished. No one can reach Morales, either. And there are large bonfires where there used to be vehicles.”

Muerto sucked at the air around him. He couldn’t seem to get enough into his lungs. He no longer felt cold. The hand gripping the phone trembled, but not with fear. Diego would not kill him, not yet. No, rage coursed through him. His vision tinged with red around the edges. Rage at himself for underestimating the man named Spears, and for Spears himself.

“You better find out what the fuck is going on. If I have to set up in another upstate city, it’s going to be a pain in my ass. Another turf war, new contacts, new bribes. I will have to downsize my workforce, starting with you. And you don’t want to be downsized.”

Muerto didn’t care about the threat. His professional pride had been wounded.

“I’ll take care of--” Muerto’s first words cut off as the window shattered. A Molotov cocktail crashed against the wall, engulfing the cheap yellow arm chair immediately. Fire raced up the wall and along the floor. He stood with the phone in his hand watching it, then walked to the window. Outside, the pickup truck of his adversary sped away.

“I’ll take care of it, Diego,” Muerto finished. “Here’s what I’ll need.”

He finished quickly and did not bother to hang up the phone. When he took the Cadillac keys out of the brass bowl, the fire was licking at his heels. He calmly walked down the stairs, took an AK-47 from next to the door, and walked to the car. After all, he hadn’t killed anyone in weeks.

Twelve: Et tu, Rocko?

Rocky is looking at me like a scolded puppy, but he still has his .40 leveled my way. Something in those dumb, sad eyes tells me he’s going to explain himself. He doesn’t need to. If John Law was going to catch up to me at some point, I’d just assume it was Rocky. Hell, maybe he’d make detective after all.

“Sorry it’s gotta be like this, Spearsy,” he says, and I can tell I’m right. The explanation is coming. Like I said, he doesn’t need to explain why he has to do this, but I am curious as to which of my many errors has brought my best friend to my door with stainless steel jewelry for me.

“It’s OK, Rock. Better you than somebody else.”

He looks uncomfortable with that, and it’s more than just the fact he’s busting his friend.

“Yeah, well…”

“How’d you figure it out? The knife?”

He’s blushing, and that feeling I get in the pit of my stomach starts to rumble.

“You had some help, Rocky?”

He nods like he just got caught cheating in class. “Some. Rather not say who.”

“That’s fine.”

“It’s better this way, Spearsy. This is the best choice.”

“What choice is that, Rock?”

“Either I bring you in…”

“Or?”

Rocky gestures with the gun. He can’t be serious.

“Guess I’m glad I’m your friend, then.”

“Yeah…”

“Why’s the other choice the other choice, Rocky? I won’t fight you. You know that.”

I’m starting to catch on. All the little run-ins with Muerto’s crew haven’t been due to my careful planning or luck.

“Muerto.” I say it like, well, death. “He got to you?”

The gun dips a little. Rocky rubs his thick hand over his sweating and protruding brow.

“For money, Rock?” I try to say it without the disappointment I feel, but I fail.

“Some money, yeah. Not all that much, but he didn’t need to.”

“Then--?”

“He took picture of my brother’s kid, Spearsy! My little darlin’ niece. Said something real bad could happen to her if I don’t give him some info. It snowballed from there until—“

“You either put me behind bars, or kill me for them..” Rocky doesn’t know Muerto like I do now, doesn’t know that it’s a bluff, that Muerto doesn’t hurt kids. Of course, if it was my niece, I guess I’d be afraid he’d make an exception.

Rocky’s nod can’t be sadder.

“They’ll get me behind bars, Rock.”

“You’re no threat to them behind bars.”

“I’m an example waiting to be made. You, or anybody, bring me in, and I’m dead.” That guilty part of me, the greatly diminished part, is OK with this. However, the survivor part is very much not.

“So let’s get ‘em, Rock.”

“What?”

“You and me, or just me if you prefer. Let’s bring them down.”

“You can’t. They’re a whole cartel, Spearsy. Go right back into Columbia or something. They got resources bigger than some countries.”

“I know, Rock. That hasn’t stopped me so far. In fact, you’re the only thing that will stop me now, if you really want to.”

His blush is more of a flush right now. He thinks I’m challenging him. I’m not. I won’t fight Rocky, even if he’s crossed the line.

“He has you on video killing that Bulldog guy. If I don’t bring you in, some other cop will.”

“He won’t use it. If this fails, he’ll want to handle it himself. We—I—don’t have to take on the whole cartel, or even chase them back to Columbia.”

Thick brow furrows in doubt and, maybe, hope.

“We just have to make them believe that it’s too much of a pain in the ass to do business here.”

“How?”

It’s not much of an opening, but right now I’d try to ram a fire truck into a rabbit hole.

“You’re going to get the department to turn up the heat on them, and I’m going to burn them.”

“Yeah,” he says. There’s not much conviction behind it, like none. But like I said, rabbit holes... I lay out my plan. What I say in the next few minutes will either keep me free and alive, or in jail and/or dead. I plan to speak eloquently.

Eleven: Butcher's Block

Quick fix and explanation: I'm skipping ahead a bit from the end of the last chapter. Previous to this story, Spears has made contact with the head bad guy, Angel Muerto and learned a little more about the organized crime in the area. Muerto has convinced Spears that Bulldog is the last member of Luis Colon's crew. Bulldog has taken matters into his own hands and threatened Spears' girlfriend, Kelly. Muerto is not unhappy about this development.

Bulldog’s new digs aren’t much. The brick walls are still strong, but worn on the edges from years of weathering. The mortar gaps in many places, and the brick bulge and hang loosely in spots. A black and white sign swings against the wind, it’s splintered and faded lettering whispering that it was once a wire factory. Who owned it is lost in the ages of rain and the darkness around the building. A lonely streetlight barely manages to cast a ray on the metal delivery door, which smells and feels of rust and iron. It is a heavy door, and still solid, still a formidable barricade.

The inside is much worse. Dust and broken glass litter the floor. Ashy spots darken the rough wooden planks where squatters lit fires in the night, playing Darwin in a game of chance that had hypothermia on one side and incineration on the other. The squatters have so far beaten the odds, as the building had yet to succumb to an out of control fire. The ceiling is twenty feet from the ground and metal support beams hang about five feet under it, still holding up the leaky roof. The beams are very dirty, having exceeded mere dust sometime in the 1970s. They are also very dark and of little defense against the constant wet draft that filters through the windows whose glass had been knocked out by passing teenagers. There are signs of life: the crumpled bedroll in a dry spot on the floor, cans of foodstuffs, and the random overhead lights that Bulldog has hooked to a stolen generator. Where they work, the lights are hot, but not hot enough to ward off the cold, nor bright enough to make up for their missing fellows. Also, Bulldog himself paces the floor in frenzy.

“I’m coming for your woman,” Bulldog says into his cell phone. “Gonna have a little fun with her. Hope she comes out of the coma. Be better if she wiggles around.”

“You’re talking about my girlfriend,” I say very quietly and calmly into my own cell phone.

“Yeah, shithead. What do ya think ‘bout that?”

“It’s a problem,”

Bulldog laughs in that husky, cough of his. He smiles in a way that reptiles would run from. He’s pacing faster and faster along the dirty plank floor.

“A fucking problem? You’re goddamned right it’s a problem. She gonna—“

“Didn’t say a problem for her, or for me, you stupid shit. You’re worrying about my girlfriend when you should be worrying about Muerto.”

“The fuck do I have to worry about Muerto?”

“Because he doesn’t like you very much and he thinks you’re going to ruin his cartel’s outfit in this city.”

“Fuck him, I am this cit—“

“Because you’re a pussy who threatens women when he can’t fight like a man.”

“Tough talk, asshole. I ain’t afraid of Muert—“

“Because you’re worrying about a woman in a hospital bed when you should be worrying about Muerto.”

“I’m gonna skull f—“

“Because Muerto left the door unlocked for me. You’re thinking about my woman, and that’s a problem”

I flip close the cell phone with an audible pop, so that Bulldogs hears it and stops to look up, right underneath me. I drop down from the ceiling rafter, my full weight coming down on top of Bulldog. The collision blasts my air away. If he wasn’t built like a fireplug, I would have just snapped his neck. Instead, we crash down together and he struggles to disentangle himself from me. He catches me with a foot to the face as he scrambles away, but there isn’t much on it. I grab the foot and pull myself onto him, grab his balls and squeeze. He screams and gurgles I punch him in the throat. He’s tough and has a neck like a rhino, so he has time to get his gun out. I grab his arm, let him force against me, let him think he’s going to get on top of me, but I control his hips with my legs. I keep rolling through his momentum, slide around to his back, and lock my forearm against his throat. I bend his gun-hand back until it snaps. A shot rings out into a can of beans. I crank on his arm so he can feel the pain. Then, I shut off his air for good.

“You thinking about my woman, Bulldog, is a problem,” I say to his motionless, broken form, “Because you should have been thinking about me.”

*

From the shadows, Angel Muerto emerged and turned off his video camera.

"Officer Luciano," he said into his cell phone, "I would like to report a murder."

Ten point Six: Perpendicular Parking

A short piece this week.--C.T.

I pull into the parking spot, fully aware that Tank Daddy is watching me from his Pontiac down the street. I can’t be sure, but I think his engine is running. Apparently, they have understood my answer to their gold-grilled message.

I hold my truck with the parking break, and start to step out with my left foot. Tank Daddy burns out and pulls his car behind me. If he wasn’t so anxious, he might have seen my exhaust smoke, but he is and he doesn’t. As I throw myself back in, I see the glint of a steel gun barrel and the crack of a shot. A little zip goes by me and lodges in parts unknown. My right hand slams the shifter into reverse, and my right foot buries the accelerator. The drive way is on a bit of an up-slant, so my rear bumper connects solidly with his left fender. The diesel engine’s massive torque squeals the tires. Rubber burns and metal crumples. My truck grinds his car ninety degrees. Tank Daddy’s pistol clatters to the black-top, and he’s half hanging out of his window. Parking break back on, I’m out of the truck and in Tank Daddy’s face. He’s still reaching for pistol, stupidly, and trying to fumble open the door. I put an elbow in his face and follow with an exploding uppercut. Tank Daddy’s head bounces off the windows frame, and he’s bleeding from his mouth and scalp. I open the car door and slam his head in it several times.

I’m not really interested in killing Tank Daddy, though the damage to a lesser man’s head might have been fatal. I have a sense that Tank Daddy will recover. In a weird way, I kind of like him, his attempt on my life not withstanding. I collect his pistol, pleased that my little arsenal is growing one untraceable weapon at a time. I then re-park my truck, push Tank Daddy over to the passenger seat, and take off in his car. I might be able to sneak up on one more target for the night.

Ten point Five: The Bait

I’m starting to think that my story isn’t going to have a happy ending. I guess that’s to be expected when you stumble along blindly against gangsters. Whose story really ends happily, anyway? Nobody gets out of life alive.

I’m just being morbid. Killing a guy does that to you. And though I’m getting all right with the killing, death is death. Strangely, it might be life, too. I’ve been on the edge. Ragged, sure, but I’ve never been so tuned in, so motivated. I don’t sleep well, still, but when I get up in the morning, I go. I do something. I’ve always been a physical, active guy, but now I have this sense of…not urgency, exactly. It’s not a panic, though I’ve been there, too. Immediacy. That’s the word. I’m here, doing. This time, this moment—it’s intoxicating. And a distraction from my morbid thoughts.

Lenny looks even worse than when I saw him last. He’d been in the trunk a long time. I’m looking at him from behind a one-way mirror. Beyond the dehydration, he looks lost, forlorn. Clearly, Lenny knows his gang has given him the pink slip.

“Well?” Rocky asks. He wants me to finger Lenny for my assailant. Why not? If he’s off the street, he’s not going to be looking for me. Why did his employer give him up, though? I mean, he’s lousy at his job. Goes to shakedown me, gets his ass handed to him. Goes to collect money from cowed merchants, gets his ass handed to him.

“You guys get anything more off the security camera tape?” I ask.

“We’re going over it again, trying to enhance it.” They’d shown me the tape. To my great relief, you can’t tell I attacked him or identify my truck. Second time, two guys, a short body builder and a tall, mean looking Latino let him out of the trunk. They talked to him, gave him some water, then shoved him back in. I assume the Latino is the guy Salamanca warned me about.

“So they knew him, liked him well enough to keep him from dying of thirst, but not enough to let him out of the trunk,” I say. “Why?”

“Looks like they wanted to give him up. Don’t know why, but he hasn’t said anything beyond his initial outburst when we found him,” Rocky says. “So is he the guy?”

There’s something here for me. Lenny’s employer could have dumped him someplace extra dead. Why risk him talking to the cops? Probably, he’s too scared of his employer to talk, or he knows he’s going to walk. The only way the police can continue to hold him is if they find the gun he shot Jerry Gold with, or if someone testifies against him for one of his crimes. Like, say, assaulting a firefighter. That person would have to appear in court, be available. And vulnerable.

“You know, Rocky, I can’t tell. It all happened so fast.”

Rocky’s not happy with my answer. His jaw’s open and his thick brow is extra furrowed. “For crissake, Spearsy, we both know this is the guy. Just finger him and we’ll lock him up.”

“Sorry, Rock. I’m just not sure.”

Rocky’s looking at me out of the corner of his eye. “Never figured you to be scared or a guy like him.”

“Maybe it’s not fear.” Confusion knits his brow. I walk out of the room while he ponders.

Ten point Four: The Element of Supplies

Something will shake out soon. I can’t just shove the bag man for a gang into his own trunk and leave him there. While I wait to see what, I decide to go see Salamanca again, then go shopping.

When I get downtown, it’s raining again. Front rolled in of Lake Ontario, and it’s cooler than I like it at this time of year. Nobody answers at Salamanca’s office. I try the office line—no luck—then try his cell phone. He picks it up on the fifth ring.

“Yeah man?”

“I have a gift for you, Tony. Let me in.”

“Can’t. Not there.”

“Hey, you all right? I can barely hear you.”

“Bit of a headache. What do you need?” He sounds sleepy.

“I just shook the tree on the late Mr. Colón’s gang. Left Lenny locked in his car trunk.”

“Why would you do an idiot thing like that, Spears?” He sounds less sleepy now, but I can hear the wince in his voice. I remember that when he was with the Marines, Salamanca got shot up pretty bad and had a plate put in his head. The weather doesn’t help.

I tell him what Symphony Johnston told me, and about my theory on Lenny being Jerry Gold’s killer. “I’m thinking I need to borrow a tank or two, maybe get some backup.”

“I can’t help you on the backup right now, Spearsy, but anything I have in the arsenal is yours. I’m serious. Take whatever.”

“Thanks.”

“Listen, if you’re smart—and I know I can rule that out—you’ll use the money you took off Lenny and fly the hell to Europe. You cannot fuck around with these guys. Whatever you’re going to do, do it fully. You’re off the map and these be the monsters.”

“Okay, Ahab.”

“I’m fucking serious, Spears.” The silence between us kills the banter and drives home his point. Thankfully, he continues. I’m not sure I could keep my voice steady.

“Here’s how you get inside.”

He tells me about a key and a couple of codes, then I’m inside, up the stairs, and through his office, and inside his hidden vault. Inside is enough hardware to make Eric Holder soil his panties. Salamanca talks to me the whole way.

“From now on, set your cell phone on vibrate if you have it on at all. You don’t want to be somewhere covertly and have the thing go off. Be careful who you call with it. If you can memorize numbers, do so and delete all your contacts off it.

“Take what you want from the arsenal,” he continues, “but travel light. Keeping aware and mobile is better than trying to hide behind a lot of guns and armor. You can stay at my office, too, if you need to. I don’t know if they tracked down your home address yet. Maybe, if they checked the hospital where you stayed.”

“I don’t think so. The cop I know kept a lid on everything.”

“Call him. I’m not saying turn yourself in, but he might know something about what’s going on.”

“You read my mind on that one.”

“Watch your six, Spears,” he says before breaking the connection.

I call Rocky.

“Rocky, I was driving by the car wash on West Liberty Street and there was some sort of commotion going on. You hear anything about that?”

“Funny you ask, Spearsy. I was gonna call you with the good news. Looks like someone shoved Lenny Krastewski into the trunk of his car.”

“They know who did it?”

“Not yet. There’s a security camera on premises though. Might be a tape.”

Security camera. Crap.

“Why’nt you come in. You could finger Lenny as the guy that assaulted you.”

“Yeah, sure thing.”

The police station is the last place I want to be if they identify the assailant. I was wearing a hoody at the time to be safe, but if the camera caught my truck or license plate, I’d be walking into to my own arrest.

“Krastewski’s a funny guy,” Rocky continues. “He’s pissed off, ranting and raving. Sounds like Joe Pesci’s retarded cousin. Keeps going on about getting shoved in the trunk twice.”

“Twice?”

“You bet. I’ll explain when you get down here.”

I still don’t want to go down there, but who else would have found him besides his employers? A good Samaritan wouldn’t have shoved him back in. Maybe it’s the way gang bangers gave termination notices.

Someone has a message for me. Maybe they are on the security camera footage. It’s a gamble but I need to know.

I put Salamanca’s guns back in his vault, arm the security measures, and head down to the police station.

Ten point Three: Counterpunch

Bulldog, his neck healed, told Muerto the bad news. The gold toothed man named Lenny was not answering his phone, and he was overdue with the weekly shakedown money.

Muerto’s first instinct was to delegate it to Bulldog. His patience with Lenny had worn thin after he and Tank Daddy had bungled their bracing of the fireman. He had paid good money for doctors to put them back together again. If Lenny had gotten himself into a jam again, he didn’t much care.

He did care about the money. It was pequeño, really, but the principle of the thing gnawed at him. Lose a few thousand here and there, it added up. He was trying to get this gang back on track, after all.

Muerto would have preferred to direct his attention back to the fighting fireman, his leading suspect in Colón’s death. He wasn’t sure why he liked him for the murder—a hunch really. A lifetime ago, he had made a living off following hunches for the Policía Nacional of Colombia. But that choice was far behind him.

Most of the local gangs had been too small time to try to bump off Colón. Only one gang leader might have been capable of the hit, but Muerto had exhausted that possibility. Permanently.

The disappearance of his bag man had to be something he handled personally. He’d brought Bulldog to heel, but couldn’t count on any form of tact from the bodybuilder. More likely, relying on Bulldog would prove fatal to one or both of them. No, he had to do the thinking.

“Drive me to the collection route of Lenny,” Muerto said at last. Bulldog grumbled. Muerto knew that the thick bodied man wanted to get out on his own again, as he had been in the brief period between Colón’s death and Muerto’s arrival. A trip down the stairs and subsequent neck brace had collared the dog and he no longer appeared to have designs on running the gang himself.

In the car, Bulldog changed hits tone.

“You can’t give a dumbass like Lenny this kind of job. I freakin’ told Luís that.”

Muerto said nothing. He seemed focused entirely on the passing scenery, committing it to memory, and learning the route.

“Dumbass couldn’t even roll that fireman right. Send me next time, Angel.”

“Are you criticizing my decisions, Señor?”

“Ah, uh, no. Just sayin’ I can help…”

“Yes, you can help. I will tell you how and when in each case.”

Bulldog’s jaw clamped shut, muscles flexing.

“Right now, Bulldog, you will help us by driving the route of Lenny.”

Bulldog snapped on the car radio and glared at the road. He did keep his mouth shut, though.

Their first stop, a pizzeria, verified that Lenny had been in. Muerto let Bulldog perform the interview while he stayed in the car. Intimidation and bluntness worked fine in this case. Plus, Muerto wanted to stay as low profile as possible. As they drove to the other pickup spots, he saw how easy and open Lenny’s route had been. If something had happened to him, it wouldn’t have been hard to follow and intercept him at various points.

Still, they had no sign of the bag man by their last stop. The would have had none at all if Muerto hadn’t noticed a line of cars awkwardly backing up and changing stalls at the carwash next to their last “client”. He pointed Bulldog in the right direction.

“Sonofavbitch,” Bulldog said as they pulled up. “That’s Lenny’s car all right.”

Muerto had Bulldog wait until the line finished. Bulldog pulled in tight behind the car. Banging and yelling came from the trunk. Muerto and Bulldog got out and closed the stall’s garage door. Muerto found the trunk release inside the unlocked cabin, and sprung the lid. Lenny, bedraggled by sweat, crawled his way from inside. He was a mess from the bandages he still wore from the firehouse fight and the confinement in the trunk.

“Water,” he croaked. Bulldog got a gallon jug from his car and gave it to him. When he had revived himself somewhat, Muerto helped him to his feet.

“Who did this to you?” he asked.

“Dunno, man. Guy ripped me out of the car in the middle of the wash cycle. Had a hoodie on.”

“And the money?” Muerto asked, his voice suggesting that he already knew the answer.

“He, uh. He took it.”

Muerto nodded, clapped Lenny on the back to comfort him.

“We’ll get the money back, amigo,” he said.

“How?” Bulldog asked

“We’re going to set a trap, draw this man out.”

“What kind of trap?” Lenny asked.

“One with you as the bait.” He punched Lenny hard enough in the solar plexus to drive the air from him. It wasn’t hard to double-up the already weakened man. Then, he picked him up by the belt and collar and heaved him back into the trunk.

“C’mon…man,” Lenny gasped. “It’s hot in here!”

Muerto picked up the water jug and threw it inside. It bounced off Lenny’s head. When Lenny grabbed at it, Muerto grabbed the finger he had in a cast from the botched firehouse job. Lenny stifled a scream.

“If I did not have so few men,” he said, his voice seething, “you would now be dead. But I have one more use for you. Do not fail me in this.” He slammed the lid shut.

“What’re we gonna do?” Bulldog said.

“Call the police,” Muerto said. He lifted the garage door and walked to the pay phone by the change machine. He found the business card he wanted, dropped some coins into the slot and dialed.

“Hello, Officer Luciano?” he said with no trace of an accent. “I’d like to report a crime.”

“What the hell you doin’?” Bulldog hissed through clenched teeth.

“Returning a message,” Muerto said.

Ten point Two: Car Wash

Ten point Two: Car Wash

A week later, I figure I’m ready to roll. I follow Lenny, AKA Brougham, as he leaves Luigi’s Pizza after picking up the Luigi’s protection payment. It’s actually not owned by Luigi anymore; and Indian guy bought the place three years ago, but he kept the name the same. Guess he was worried that people would think that they’d get curry on their large pie if he called it Ramanuja’s.

Lenny is driving, appropriately enough, an eighties Fleetwood Brougham, riding on twenty inch rims. The car is a mechanical travesty, but it looks shiny and that’s all a guy like Lenny cares about. His world is the system booming in his car, the shine on the paint, the money he just extorted from Luigi’s Pizza, and not pissing off his bosses. This is a shame for Lenny, because I’m about to ruin all four.

He circles Fort Stanwix on to Erie Boulevard until cutting a right into the Burger King. I cruise on past and stand illegally in front of the old folks’ apartment complex. Lenny is probably not expecting a tail, but he did just pick up a nice chunk of change, so he could be on edge. The King must not be in tonight, because it takes Lenny a short glacial age to get his food. He circles back past me, and I can hear the bass thump of his system though his and my windows are up, and my diesel engine idles loudly. I start to shift into gear to follow, but he stops and pulls into the Mobil Station. Even though it’s late and few people are near the gas station, Lenny still manages to drag this out. After filling up, he goes inside to buy a forty and some lottery tickets. If he hits the Powerball, I wonder if he’ll give up his life of crime. The thought does little to amuse me. This is some boring surveillance and I wish I had done this in proper cop fashion with coffee and doughnuts. I expect to stop for his dry-cleaning next, except a guy like Lenny doesn’t worry about extra starch in his collars.

Lenny eventually fills his tank and starts to pull out, but stops and lowers his window to say something to a passing Latina in tight Capri pants and an insufficient halter top. If she is impressed with Lenny, the bandages I gave him from the firehouse, and his car, she hides it well by walking away immediately. Lenny’s scarred face contorts angrily and he shouts something at her, to which she replies by flipping him the bird. Ah, young love.

I do notice, now that the dark tinted window is down, that the older style chrome lock button is popped up. Also, Lenny doesn’t seem to wear his seatbelt.

Apparently, Lenny feels that the problem with the girl is car related, and he pulls into the carwash across the street. I wonder if whoever is really in charge of the gang knows how lackadaisical his courier is. I would think that they’d prefer him to return the money safely to base, so that, say, a guy like me didn’t come up on him while he’s in the car wash and mug him.

He drives into the automatic stall and the machine arm circles his car, coating it in a foamy prewash solution. I pull in behind him. With his windows soaped, he can’t see me coming. Heedless of the water and soap, I run into the wash bay, open his door, and drag him out of the car. He yells and reaches back inside for a gun, but I punch him hard in the temple. If it were a cartoon, his eyes would have spun like a slot machine and displayed two jackpot logos. It’s not. Instead, his eyes roll up and he goes limp in my grasp.

I pop his trunk, check it for weapons, and lock him inside. My big pickup screens us from view, so I have some time to search his car. I find his gun and the envelopes of cash. Looks like I hit the jackpot. If Lenny's boss wanted to turn up the heat on me, not let this thing with Colón go, then I’d see how they liked having their money train derailed.

I think about killing Lenny for what he did to Jerry, but I’m not going to. I can’t do it in cold blood, not yet anyway. Besides, killing him now won’t lead me to his employers. I leave Lenny and his car inside the wash bay, get in my truck, and back out. Back home, I count five grand in cash and let out a slow whistle. It’s the most money I’ve ever held in my hands at one time, and I can think of a few uses for it. Hockey season is coming, and I’d love to see the Rangers in HD, but the big screen will have to wait. If I’m going to continue my war on crime, I’m going to need supplies.

Ten point One: Recovery

I’m a little short on time this week, so I apologize if this is rough. The following takes place immediately after Spears was shot in the butt in the fire station and before he had the encounter with Bebe. I’m going to try to fill a few plot holes with the next couple of posts. If you have trouble following the order, please let me know and I’ll answer your questions. Thanks for reading and commenting! –“Connecticut” Avis

Ten point one: Recovery

Lenny and Tank Daddy have become a real pain in my ass. Especially true now that stitches hold closed a nine millimeter hole in my left buttock. I giggle at my own joke. I don’t really feel that pain. I’m floating. The pain in my head is worse.

The pain comes from the questions. The most recent of which: how did they track me down? The thought tumbles about with: why was Kelly extorting Luis Colón? And: What am I going to do about it?

The pain also comes from that other side of me, that side that stares at me in the mirror like a frightened child. It asks how I could kill a man. It looks at me and tries to figure out what I’m becoming. It wants to punish me.

The pain is welcome.

I float out of the anesthesia, aware of pain but not the source. I’m laying face down on a mechanical bed with cheap sheets. Kelly always had nice sheets, soft sheets. Something about high thread count.

The I.V. drip in my arm confirms my suspicion that I’m in a hospital, but I can’t figure out why, or why they have me laying face down. I wonder if I’m in the same hospital as Kelly. I want to find out. Moving is out of the question; my ass feels like there’s a nail through it. Also, something is uncomfortable on the other side down there, like my very special fun bit is wired to something. Suddenly, I remember being shot by Lenny. And Tank Daddy hammering my kidneys.

A nurse comes in, smiles, and checks a bag under my bed.

“You’re kidneys have stopped bleeding,” she says cheerily.

“Stopped is good. Not bleeding at all is better.”

She smiles, but doesn’t care. My charm doesn’t work so well face down with my wounded butt sticking out the back of a hospital gown. “The police would like to talk to you.”

I knew they would.

"Roll me over first," I say. The nurse helps me. She's good. She doesn't even get the catheter twisted.

Rocky walks in carrying something under his arm and wearing his uniform blues. Detective Comb-over Al accompanies him.

“Ah, shit,” Al says. “You.”

“Funny, I was thinking the same thing.”

“You want to make a statement?”

“Sure. Let me recall something from the Gettysburg Address.”

Rocky shakes his head in warning and Al gives me the dead-eye cop gaze.

“Let me re-phrase that,” he says. “Tell me what the fuck happened or I’ll haul your dumb shot-up ass downtown on obstruction charges.”

“Come on, Spearsy,” Rocky says. “We’re just trying to help.”

I shrug an apology and relay my tale, carefully leaving out the fact that I knew Lenny and Tank Daddy from before.

“So you have no idea what these two were doing down there?” Al says.

“Probably looking to grab some gear to pawn. Gayle works the front office. Her presence is usually enough to discourage would-be thieves, but these guys were pretty determined. Hey, how is Gayle anyway?”

“She’s good,” Rocky says. “Took a blow to the head, but she should be okay in a few days.”

Al looks carefully bored about our digression. “Rocky’s got your address. We’ll be in touch if we track these two down.” Al leaves and Rocky leans in conspiratorially.

“The description you gave pretty much matches Lenny Krastewski, the guy we like for shooting Jerry Gold,” he says quietly. “I noticed you left that out. What are you up to, Spears?”

“Must have just slipped my mind, Rocko.”

“Don’t screw around with these guys, man. They are connected. We think Lenny is a bagman for Colón’s gang. He’s a shooter and the working theory is he bumped off his boss to move up in the gang.”

It’s good to hear that someone else is the number one suspect. But something else grabs my attention.

“Bagman? What’s he do?”

“We haven’t moved on him yet cause we’re waiting to connect him with the gang, but we’re pretty sure he collects the protection money from a couple of businesses up in Rome.”

“Tony Salamanca said the same thing.”

“He oughta know. He’s got a bail bond out on half the crooks in the area. Anyway, get yourself better. I picked up a new piece you just gotta try. I know you think my .40 is big, but I just got a beautiful 1911 tricked out for competition shooting.”

“Yeah. I might want to start packing something bigger.”

“Why’s that?”

“Something to do with the extra hole in my ass.”

“Oh. Right.” Rocky looks sheepish. Then, remembering he’s a cop again “Well, like I said, don’t do somethin’ stupid. We’ll track this guy down. Oh, thought you'd want this. For games and stuff.”

Rocky takes my the laptop computer from under his arm and gives it to me. He leaves and I get to work on doing something stupid.

School’s out for summer break, so if Kelly was helping a kid, he or she’d have to be local. Also, if Kelly was talking to Colón about some kid, that too meant the kid was local. Of course, the community college drew many students from the local area, but not as many as you’d might think. It was actually one of two community colleges in the area, in addition to a couple of four-years, so that watered down the number of locals. Our school had to recruit actively from all around the state and even across country to stay afloat. So, all I had to do was cross-reference her students with their hometowns, a task aided by the school computer system.

A couple of names came up repeatedly, but that wasn’t unusual. Students often found a teacher they liked and took him or her for all the required classes and any electives they could manage. I see the same students over and over in the EMT program, but I’m the only full-time teacher in the program. Kelly was never sure if it was a compliment that students came back to her or if she was just an easy grader. I’d seen her work; it was a compliment.

I cross referenced the class lists with students who were still enrolled, and that got the list down a few names. Kelly could be working with someone who had failed out or who graduated, but I have to make some initial decisions. Besides, Kelly tried like hell to help anyone who tried to help him or herself, but wasn’t likely to go after students who stopped attending. A body only has so much energy.

I cross reference the cross reference with a list of Kelly’s advisees. One name turned up on all the lists: Symphony Johnston. A couple more clicks got me Ms. Johnston’s home address and phone number.

Using the hospital phone, I dial. I think about what I’m going to say while listening to the ring tone. It keeps ringing and just as I think I’m going to have to try later, a sleepy female voice says hello.

“Symphony?” I say keeping my voice low.

“Yeah?”

“This is Lenny.”

Silence, then Symphony’s voice continues, much more awake. “How’d you get this number? I…I can’t go back, Lenny. I thought with Luís dead, you wouldn’t need us girls no more.”

“We do. You know where to be?”

“Yeah, yeah, RJ’s Lounge. But Lenny, look, I almost have the money. Just give me a couple more weeks. Don’t make me go back. I can’t do it no more…” her voice breaks off into sobs.

“Symphony, hey, listen, it’s OK. This isn’t Lenny. My names Spears.”

“What? You creep, who are you? You think this is funny?”

“No, no. Wait. Don’t hang up. I’m friends with Kelly, the professor who was helping you out.”

“Kelly? How is she?”

“No change.”

“I’m sorry about that. I think she got hurt trying to get Luís off my back.”

“I’d like to talk to you about that.”

“Look, Mr. Spears, if Luís is dead, I’m out. I’m sorry about what happened to Kelly, but I can’t change that now.”

Talk about ungrateful. But I keep my cool.

“No, Symphony, you can’t. But unless you help me, that little conversation we had at the start is going to be for real. Colón’s gang isn’t out of action. They’re reorganizing under a guy who I hear will make Colón look like a sweetheart. Now, I need to know why Kelly was helping you.”

It takes awhile to get all the answers out of her. I would have preferred to do it in person, but I need to heal as fast as possible, which meant staying in bed. My guess proves true. She had got in debt to Colón for, of all things, tuition money and he had turned her out on to the streets. His interest rate was killer and there’d been no end in sight for her until Kelly got involved.

We compare notes. Apparently Symphony had written about her experiences in a private journal that she’d accidentally turned in to Kelly as part of her course work. Kelly had talked to her about it and offered to help her out, lend her the money to get Colón off her back. Colón, though, hadn’t really wanted the money, so Kelly had tried to intervene directly. Somehow, she had planned to blackmail Colón for Symphony’s freedom. Probably, Colón had responded by forcing the loaded pot on her.

The conversation is enlightening and I feel a little more at ease for killing him. Symphony agrees to meet with me when I need her. I want to get right up, but I have to be smart about this. Sit, heal, and plot.

Any organization like this cares about its money flow. If something starts messing with that flow, they’ll get curious and start digging around. When they start asking, I can start finding ways in.

Lenny collects the money. Plus he probably shot Jerry.

I’ll pay Lenny a little visit next.

Thirteen: Spears and Tygers

I'm honored and indebted to A.G. Devitt for working with me on this crossover. It's been a real growth experience trying to write not just my characters, but to do justice to his. His work on some of the background information and Blake's dialogue are part of this story. And now, the final part of our three story arc:

Spears and Tygers

Blake and Antonio created by A.G. Devitt. Used with permission.

“…When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?”

--From “The Tyger” by William Blake

Knowing you ought to do something and actually doing it are two different things. In the theoretical, I knew I should do something about Tommy’s death. But before I had a name, I was comfortably powerless. Now that I could actually do something, I found myself balking at the prospect.

I think part of my hesitation came from my subconscious. Some part of me knew what road I was on. It wasn’t the fear of what could happen to me physically. Really, I knew where my decisions were leading me. Honor warred with innocence within.

The tough guy world doesn’t have yellow pages, but the more jobs you work, the more contacts you make. Still, tracking down Blake wasn’t easy. He didn’t have much in the way of legitimate connections, working the other side of the table and all. I used part of my severance check to grease a few wheels. When that didn’t work, I got my leads five knuckles at a time. It was dirty work. Every once in a while, I’d catch a reflection of myself and not realize who I was seeing at first.

I did clearly see Tommy. In my mind’s eye, he lay there wadded up and discarded. What monster could do that to him and in front of his little girl?

I caught up with the man named Blake in a ramshackle bar. Whiskey was about him like loose clothes. He looked average. Tough, but average. He was about my size, maybe even a little smaller. Definitely not the hulking brute I had imagined.

I doubt he saw me coming in. He was drinking mean. I’d know what that was like later, after I killed Colón. You hope the whiskey burns away the memories like it burns your throat. It even works for a little while.

I didn’t worry about it then. I didn’t care if it was fair that he was drinking. What he did to Tommy was monstrous, and he had to pay.

Without giving him warning, I went to knock him off his stool with a body check. He caught himself, but I managed to get a fist up under his ribs. He moved with the hit, but there was little room to maneuver and his spine slammed into the brass bar. Even with the whiskey, he was fast. He was already defensive when I attacked again, elbows and fists seeking his face. I had a few pounds on him and finally got him off the stool.

I should have just kicked him. Then I might have seen his Mexican friend slide up behind me with a Beretta. I’m not sure why he didn’t shoot me, but the pistol whip didn’t feel good. At least I was alive.

I didn’t go completely out, but I didn’t offer much in the way of resistance after that. I was dimly aware of the bartender leaving my field of vision. I saw Blake rising to his feet. I had laid some good shots on him, but he still pulled himself up. His gaze met mine and then he smashed an elbow…somewhere…

I awoke tied to a chair. I hurt everywhere. Blake must have worked me over after he knocked me out with the first shot. He stood at the end of the bar, drinking coffee and looking sober. I ran my tongue over all my teeth, squirmed a bit to check my ribs. Everything was intact, but painful. I think even my hair hurt.

“Whiskey?” he said, walking over to me. He held a shot glass to my mouth when I nodded. It was good stuff, probably Jameson’s and I could use one or five more.

“Who sent you?” He said it wearily, like he knew he was going to have to drag this out of me.

“Tommy.”

He exchanged looks with someone behind me. Getting no satisfaction that way, he turned back to me. “Who’s Tommy?” His tone was more annoyed disappointment than anger.

“Tommy is the guy you pulverized in front of his little girl. That’s who the fuck Tommy is.”

I would have missed it if I hadn’t been staring a hole through him. It was tiny, almost gone before it existed, but he sucked in a little air through clenched teeth.

“You work with him?” he said. Back to business.

“No. Went to high school with him.”

“High school?” He said the word like I had just claimed to come from Mars. “You’re just a high school chum, looking for a little payback?”

I sat motionless. He was obviously working himself up to something, and I had to be ready.

“Makes sense, Kimosabe,” the voice behind me said. The Mexican with the gun and the Mustang. “Pro hitter would have just plugged you from the doorway. He came looking for a bar fight.”

Blake was stoic. He pulled a chair in front of me and sat on it backwards. He studied me like I was an artifact.

“You seriously came in here for some debt of honor? Do you have any idea what your friend Tommy was into?”

I shook my head.

“Antonio.”

Antonio told me. It was shocking but I moved right past denial and accepted it. My gut had told me that something was very wrong in Tommy’s life. I hadn’t expected to hear what Antonio said, but it made sense. The whole time, Blake studied me.

“You’re a fighter, aren’t you?”

I nodded.

“You any good?”

“I used to think so.”

“What do you do for a living, when you’re not avenging serial rapists with big gambling debts?”

“Bodyguard.”

“Ah. Professional tough guy. You ever hurt someone bad? Real bad?”

“You ever hear of someone being hurt good?”

He smiled mirthlessly. “Maybe now’s not the time to be a wiseass.”

I nodded.

“What I mean,” he checked the wallet he had taken from me, “Mr. Spears, is have you ever hurt someone the way I hurt Tommy? Do you know how or why someone would do that?”

I thought of a witty comeback, but bit it back remembering that now wasn’t a good time to be a wiseass. I just stared at him.

“You don’t.” He rose, put the chair back. “What I should do is crumple you up and throw you away like Tommy, but I’m not going to. I’m going to give you a gift.”

He walked back to the bar and finished his coffee.

“You’re on the knife-edge of this life, Spears. Maybe you’ve had a little taste, thought it was exciting. You’re probably pretty good against drunks and nut jobs. But you’ve never had to face someone like Antonio or me before.” He signaled to Antonio.

“You want to see what it’s like, kid?” he said. He didn’t look any older than me, really, except in his eyes. Those were a hundred years old. “I’ll take you into this world.”

Antonio put a hood over my head. They untied me from the chair and loaded me into the back of a car. From the deep engine rumble, I guessed we were in Antonio’s Mustang. We drove for a while. When we stopped, one car door opened and closed. I tried to reach the Buck knife in my pocket. I almost had it out when the door opened again and Blake said “Bring him.”

Antonio hauled me out of the car.

“Nothing cute, gringo. I’m taking your hood off and untying you. You try to start any shit, I’ll shoot you.” I could hear the metal in his voice. It was cold and sharp edged. I nodded.

We were in another apartment building, not unlike Tommy’s. Antonio pushed me through a broken door frame and into a cheap apartment, notable by its ragged rug and stained walls. Chipped and worn furniture was overturned in the living room. I could smell fresh urine.

Blake stood in the center of the room holding a thin young man by the throat. The man was beaten and shaking, his pale hands wrapped imploringly around Blake’s wrist.

“Do you know why I’ve done this to our friend here?” Blake asked me.

“No.”

Blake held the man by the Adam’s apple. The man gurgled and turned purple.

“You don’t want this,” he said, and with a start I realized he was talking to me. “You see this guy? What’d he ever do to me?” The man eyes moved from pleading to bugging out of his head. “Nothing. But here I am. I was told he’s a bad man who needs to be punished. Just like your friend Tommy.” My teeth ground each other. He hadn’t hurt the man badly yet, but this had all the earmarks of what had happened to Tommy.

“That’s not the worst of it, Spears,” he continued. His grip shifted slightly and the man gasped some air. “I could let him go. I want to let him go.” His hand loosened more.

“But I really, really don’t want to let him go, either.” His smile was that of a fiend as his fist contracted and twisted. I rushed forward and grabbed his hand, tried to pull it away, but it was too late. The man fell backwards, feebly grasping at his throat. To hell with Blake. I wouldn’t let him do this. I knew a trick with a ball point pen and a knife. I could open an airway for him. Blake continued to talk as I worked.

“There’s darkness inside you. I know.”

I tried to block him out but couldn’t. Still, I kept working, using my knife to cut a hole in the man’s neck.

“Don’t let it out. Once you do, you can’t ever get it back in.”

I fumbled the pen taking it apart. Hands shaking, I tried to get it into the man’s trachea.

“You’ll think you know right from wrong. You’ll think you can control it, but…”

The pen slipped into place.

“It will control you.”

I felt a thud and saw stars. I remember trying to not fall on the man, trying not to dislodge his makeshift breathing tube.

When I awoke, I was somewhere else. To this day, I don’t know if I saved that man or if Blake pulled the tube on him after he whacked me. I hated Blake, but I didn’t want to get revenge on him anymore. He showed me that much. At the time, I was sort of thankful. He let me walk away from a lifelong mistake.

Or so I had thought. Bebe’s dark wide eyes appear to me every time I close my own. I haven’t walked away from anything. I just took a longer road to Blake’s place.