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.