One: The Genesis of Mr. Spears

I'm reposting my current story line here on blogger mostly just to put something up here, but also to prepare future audiences for the storyline as it has unfolded thus far.

Part one of my current project, a crime story in the hard-boiled tradition.

Memoirs of a Vigilante

One: The Genesis of Mr. Spears

I walk into the backroom of the cigar bar as casually as I can, the seething anger pounding blood in my ears. The Smokin’ Gun is of a higher quality than most establishments in this grimy, run-down area. It tries for that sophisticated urban feel with thick leather couches and polished wood tables displaying nice heavy amber ash trays. The back room serves as the impromptu conference room for small time drug dealer Luís Colón, the man whose world I’m about to wreck. The lights are low, which is a good thing. I don’t want anyone to see this coming.

The body guard, a 6’8 monstrous bald white man—maybe Latino, I can’t tell in this light—stands almost a foot taller than my relatively small frame. “Weapons?” he asks.

“No guns. Don’t need them,” I say, honestly. I’ve been training in the martial arts since I was five years old and my dad was stationed in Yokosuka, Japan. He searches me anyway, rifling through the pockets in my sports coat. I don’t want him to touch my chest, so I take a step back, hold the jacket open so that he can see I don’t have a gun strapped under the arms of my silk t-shirt. When he pats down my groin, I add the obligatory “You looking for a weapon or a date?”

It’s such a stupid line, but I know it will work on his homophobia. I need him to be angry, angrier than I, so that he’ll act rashly. He’s a lot bigger, but muscles don’t matter, especially if he uses them ineffectively. Baldo gives me his best boxer’s stare down, his often-broken nose and granite chin inches away from my face, as he pauses standing up. I keep my face blank, forcing back the smile underneath that would tip him that he is already in big trouble. He pushes me ahead of him, toward his swarthy boss.

Colón lounges on a sofa with a forty and a skinny girl under each arm. He’s decked out in gangster chic, white silk t-shirt with the Mr. T starter kit around his neck. His jeans are baggy and clean, but with the store-bought worn-in look, the kind that someone like him would by. His sneakers are immaculate. I’m guessing that the large knife he carries in his front pocket is, too. To the casual observer, he looks out of place in a cigar bar like this, where most of the yuppies sip martinis with their work ties loosened around their oxford collars. I know better. His casual street look lets him slide in an out of every hole in the town, but he didn’t pay less than $100 for any article of clothing on him. He sees me, but does not stand.

“Mista ___?” he says, putting the bottle down.

“Spears,” I say.

“Well, Mista Spears, I don’t usually meet with clients no more, but my associates tell me you want to buy a whole lot of my product.”

He says product as if he’s selling copier toner. His product put my Kelly in the hospital, when the joint she thought she was smoking was laced with some bad heroin. Now Kelly has a tube down her trachea so she can breathe. She might make it out of the coma.

If I hadn’t hated him before coming in here, I would now. The way he moves and speaks tatters the edges of his veneer of sophistication. Nothing is authentic around that pit of a heart.

“Yes, quite a lot,” I say, keeping my own façade. “Turns out, folks uptown have quite a taste for your…product, but they don’t have easy access.”

He’s all ears now. He sees the opportunity in front of him, just as I planned. He shoos the girls out of the room. “And lemme guess, you want to be my distributor up town, my right?”

“I want to take care of your product for you.”

He smiles. Gold teeth. I amuse myself with hoping that one will stick in my fist and I’ll be able to pawn it later. The clothes I’m wearing are way above what I’d usually pay, and I know they’re about to get bloody.

“How you goin’ to do that? And what do you expect as your cut?”

“I am going to shove your product up your ass. And as for my cut…” I elbow Baldo in the solar plexus and he folds in half like a shut picture book. Moving forward, I whip the beer bottle off the table and into Colón’s face. It doesn’t break. Bottles are a lot tougher than they look in the movies, but it buys me the time to get close to him. I put my forearm against his throat, and slide his knife from his front pocket.

Baldo is up and charging toward me. I trade my forearm for my foot on Colon’s throat and hit Baldo in the temple with the butt of the knife. He staggers and falls through an end table, the glass slicing his face.

Colón is gasping for air, clawing at my foot.

“Hard to breath, shit-bag? Try breathing through a tube. Your poison has hurt the last person it’s ever going to.” I slice his cheek. I’m going to make him suffer. I still have time. Baldo is out of action and the people in the front of the bar know better than to respond to the noises coming from Colón’s rat hole. I slice is other cheek.

“Gonna make you ugly, punk, so they can’t have an open casket for your ass.”

I hadn’t really thought through this part. I knew I wanted to hurt Colón bad, but I hadn’t flipped the switch to kill mode. Now that I have gone this far, I know I have too. A shit-bag like Colón would never stop looking for revenge while he still drew breath, even if it was through a tube. Still, I hesitate, knife poised for the final strike. I never wanted to kill a man. But Colón…

Baldo is back up again, and he’s reassessed my threat level. I fling one of the heavy ashtrays at his head. It hits him, leaving a dent on his already damaged face, but amazingly, he holds his ground. He points at me—no, points a gun at me and I realize my mistake. I should have brought a gun of my own. Never bring an ashtray to a gunfight.

The next thing I know I’m laying on the floor having trouble breathing. A lot of trouble. A bloody Baldo and Colón stare down at me. Colón kicks me in the ribs, not improving my ability to breathe. I take small satisfaction in the fact that his sneakers are ruined by his own blood. I’m not dead yet, and gunfire will even alert the sheep in the bar to call the police. Whatever they’re going to do to me, they’re going to do it fast.

Colón’s face is twisted and purple from rage and a lack of air. Baldo offers to put a bullet in me, but Colón shakes his head no.

“One shot is too many,” he says. “But check his license so we know where he lives.”

Baldo leans down over me, searching for my license. Apparently, he forgot he didn’t feel a wallet when he searched me earlier.

“Boss, he ain’t go one. And he ain’t bleeding neither.”

“What?”

Baldo feels my chest and realizes the truth, too late. I grab his wrist and twist the barrel around to his chest. If he is smart, he’s wearing body armor like I am . He isn’t. He falls away and I have his gun. Colón tries to both draw his own gun and back away. He succeeds at the latter, but not the former, tripping over the ruined end table. His gun is out and pointed at me, but he’s too late. The pistol in my hand kicks twice and Luís Colón passes from this world. Rest in Hell, shit-bag.

The cops are going to be all over this place. I can hear the customers in the front screaming and clamoring for the door. Even in the hysteria, I can’t blend in with the crowd, but Colón wouldn’t be too far from an exit. I cast around and find the fire door. It leads to a back alley, which leads to the street where I parked. I drive away slowly, forcing myself to be calm. A half mile later, I stop on a bridge, wipe down the gun and throw it in the water. I follow it with my clothes, and the contents of my stomach. I want to get back into the car and getaway, but I can’t stop shaking. What I’ve done settles on me like a death shroud, graying my black and white world.