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.

Quick note

I'm over here this week. I apologize for not having part three of the Spears-Blake crossover, but it's a bit more difficult writing with a character that doesn't belong to you (Blake). One crossover a week is sort of my limit. I hope that will abide.