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.

"Nine": Recruiting

Writer's Note: This actually does directly follow-up the previous post. --C.A.

I ignore Salamanca’s question.

“You hear about Kelly?”

“Yeah, man. Sucks. Sorry to hear it.”

I nod.

“Also heard about a dead drug dealer named Luis Colón. Fucker got killed with a five grand bond on him. You know anything about that?”

“I don’t know anything about five grand.”

Salamanca smirks at my dodge. “You know anything about a big time hitter from out of town who’s poking around about it?”

“Hitter?”

“Yes, Spears. As in, hitman. As in, Colón’s mob wants to know why their Utica distributor has more holes in him than normal.”

I feel the need to sit down, so I do in the client chair. It’s slated wood and stiff, which helps keep me upright.

“How do you know this?” I ask.

Shrug. “I knows what I knows.” Salamanca’s stare never leaves me.

“What makes you think this concerns me?”

“Maybe cause you went as pale as the Martha Stewart fan club when I mentioned the hitman? Maybe because I checked around and Colón didn’t have beef with anyone, ‘cept maybe an angry boyfriend?”

My eyes drift away from Salamanca’s, and I shift against the twisting in my guts. A gross miscalculation; I had assumed that someone like Colón would have plenty of enemies around.

I find some air. “The hitman know this?”

Head shake. “If he did, you’d be dead, I’m sure.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Confidence, shit. You can’t karate chop a bullet. You’re over you head and you know it, or you wouldn’t be here, darkening my doorstep.”

“I knew that. Didn’t realize how deep. I came here for help with Jerry Gold.”

“Shame about Jerry. Cops know who aced him?”

I tell him what I overheard, including the description of the shooter.

“A white guy with a fucking Zorro mask and a gold grill?”

I nod and explain my suspicions about the skinny guy and Tank Daddy.

“Sounds about right. I posted bond on both them guys. Sounds like you know Tank Daddy. Gold-grill’s name is Lenny Krastewski…” He trails off and for the first time looks away, out his window.

“What?”

“Lenny and Tank take turns shaking down the smaller businesses in the area for protection money. Cops don’t pay much attention, cause it’s been pretty small time. But lately, they been getting greedy. Could be that they were shaking down Jerry and when he don’t pay up, they used him as an example.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“That aint’ all. Guess who Lenny and Tank worked for, the operative word there being worked.”

“Colón?” I feel the flush of anger and something else—guilt?—on my cheeks. Did killing Colón somehow get Jerry killed?

Salamanca looks back at me, sees my train of thought and shakes his head. “I don’t think Colón’s and Jerry’s death are related any more than that. One didn’t lead to the other, exactly. Guy in charge of the crew now is a ‘roid freak named Bulldog, real rageaholic. Maybe without Colón’s cooler head around, he and Lenny got greedier.”

“Thanks, Tony. I almost felt better for a second.”

Shrug. “You did whatcha did. Lenny did what he did. You can’t control that.”

“I might be able to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

Deep sigh. “Christ, Spears, you listening to me? There’s a hitman in town that will put a fucking hole in your head if he finds out you killed Colón.”

“I thought you said he didn’t know.”

“Not yet, no. I forget how innocent you are, Spearsy. I’m used to dealing with an element that knows the score, even if they ain’t as smart as you.” Big sigh again, and he’s looking out the window at the rain splashing against the pane. “There’s more to this than you know, Spears. It’s not easy to hear.”

My shoulders tense. I nod at him to go on.

“I did some checking around after I heard about Kelly. Figured I owed ya something for pulling Tina and me out of that fire.” He pauses and looks for something. The right words, I figure. “It was no accident that Kelly got that laced joint.”

I’m silent, holding vigil against the truth.

“Kelly was shaking Colón down. Why, I haven’t figured out yet. She wanted money for something, or she was going to testify against Colón as a drug dealer.”

Kelly into extortion and drugs? My Kelly? I want to walk right out of the office. But I don’t. The weight of the truth holds me in my chair and I slump against its weight.

“Again, I’m sorry, man. I know that shit ain’t easy to hear.”

Head shake. Still clinging to the last bit of resistance in me. “Doesn’t make sense. Kelly didn’t need the money. She didn’t want things, just the basic necessities and a few dollars left over for books.”

“Are you sure you knew her that well?”

I fight against my anger. “Yes. She had her Masters of Fine Arts and published poetry books. She didn’t have to be at a community college, making small change, when she could have been at a big school, making big money. She stayed here because she loved to teach these kids, whose only shot at an education was getting prepped at the CC.”

“I don’t know about all that, Spears, but maybe you’re right.”

Salamanca is quiet while he thinks about it, rubbing his scarred hand across two-days growth on his neck. I concentrate on breathing and sanity. I want to hit someone repeatedly.

“There someone she’d want to help? She have a kid or a relative in trouble?”

“No, no kid of her own, anyway. Maybe…” I rub my mouth as I consider it. Anger recedes. A seed of an idea sprouts and it feels good to be thinking again.

Salamanca waits for me, his gaze down from stern to curious. “Who would she give help to?”

“Whom,” I correct. “Mother taught school. Good grammar, always.”

“Never though of you having a mother, but all right, wise-ass, to fucking whom would she give help?”

“A student. She was always trying to save those kids, especially the hard cases who got into the college by the skin of their teeth.”

“That of course leads to the next question…”

“Yeah, which student. Guess I’ll have to figure that out.”

I stand, shake Salamanca’s hand, and leave.

“You need help on this, Spears, you let me know. But even I can’t help you against a Columbian hitman. Watch your six.”

“I’ll see what I can do about that five grand,” I say, walking out the door.

"Eight": Salamanca

#: Salamanca

I’m a tough guy. It sounds like bravado, I know. But I’ve been in enough street, bar and back alley fights to know myself I’ve dropped guys a hundred pounds heavier, guys who’ve trained in the martial arts, and guys that had never been dropped since they got too big for their daddies to slap around. Plus, I run into burning buildings for a living.

On the other hand, the situation I’ve gotten myself into is way out of my league. Rocky is a good friend and all, but he’s a cop and therefore I can’t trust him. I don’t know Rocky would take me in if I explained that I was the man who shot and killed Luis Colón, but I wouldn’t blame him if he did. I just don’t think it’s fair to put him in that position, so I keep my mouth shut. I do need help, though, and the only guy I can think of who can help is an old high school acquaintance of mine, Tony Salamanca.

His office is stuck in a corner of Utica that I usually only go to if there’s a fire. I have plenty of time on the rainy drive from my house to the city to contemplate what I’m going to say to him. My wiper blades squeak across the windshield, their pitch seeming to ask “Whaaat? Whaaat?”

I know Tony Salamanca from high school, but when I moved back to the area, he wasn’t exactly the first guy I thought to look up. Tall, tough and wiry, he makes his living as a bounty hunter, an occupation that is surprisingly lucrative in our area. He still wears his hair in a mullet under a baseball cap. If I had ever seen him in anything but a black leather jacket, usually of the motorcycle variety, faded jeans, also black, and beat up Timberlands, I don’t recall the occasion. He’d been in the Marines and, like me, had originally thought to go into the police academy. He was there years later, though, on the count of his time in the service, so we never crossed paths until I came home.

Unlike me, Tony made it through the academy and through two years on the force before being suspended. A pimp needed two plates in his head after Salamanca got done with him. As the pimp was running underage girls, I don’t see the problem, but the union didn’t back him. He quit and went into the private side of law enforcement. I saw him in some of the same bars, enough to be cordial, but friendship only blossomed after I pulled him and his daughter from a fire. I think he considers it a debt of honor and our curious friendship has grown from there. Due to recent events, I find myself happy to know someone like him, with his connections.

It may be more precise to say that I knew of Tony Salamanca in high school; I knew of no one who really hung with him. For a good part of my four years, I thought Tony was a punk with a bad attitude who only desired to smoke cigarettes and wait outside the principal’s office. That said, I’d never had a problem with the guy. One day, I rather grew to like him.

I’d been in a car accident on a Friday, rear-ended by a drunk driver. I was the picture of ER chic Monday morning, wearing a white neck brace—the old foamy white kind that made you look like you borrowed the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man’s neck for the day, not the new plastic kind that make you look like you’re part Borg. Being unfashionable in high school is bad, but that was nothing new to me. I was grunge before grunge hit the east coast, which put me at odds with my peers who were either Abercrombie preppy, refugees from a Grateful Dead show, or the next Kool Moe Dee.

Worse, being in high school and showing weakness was dangerous, especially for me. Although I had endeavored to share the milk of human kindness with my fellows, I had made a few enemies along the way, too. High school is a lot like a bar full of tough guys, only with more alcohol. When they find out you’ve got kung fu, every Billy Badass wants to step up and find out how good it is. Mine was, and is, excellent, but I didn’t wish that to define me. In high school, little matters about your wishes. Something gets out about you, and you’re That Guy. So, I was Kung-Fu Guy. This apparently threatened Football Star Guy, Rich Kid Guy, Wannabe Thug Guy, and My Home Life Sucks Guy. Oddly, though Tony could be said to be that last guy, he never crossed my path or gave me grief. We shared a certain respect in the pantheon of high school outcasts that didn’t make us friends, but didn’t make us rivals.

At any rate, this particular Monday, a kid named Matt Barker saw an opportunity and took it. Barker was a big, blond, red-faced kid who on his own may not have been a complete asshole, but had found his place with the in-crowd as their enforcer. He was dull-witted and aggressive, always a bad combination, unless you’re a bully, which Matt was. He’d been in my face a few times, but we hadn’t clashed yet. Like I said, he was dull-witted, but a sort of idiot savant when it came to violence. He picked his moments. That Monday morning was one of those moments.

I was sitting with my girlfriend Aubrey in the senior cafeteria, soaking in some much deserved sympathy. Aubrey and I were a mismatched pair. She was blond-beautiful, money-popular and incongruously kind. A remarkable combination in a high schooler. We’d met through a writing class that had enflamed my passions for the written word and for her. Though she was too good for me, she talked to me. She was the first light of my life. The Other Guys hated me for the relationship.

As we all know, high school kids in cliques don’t do anything ballsy without their friends around. So, I sucked in air and tensed the hurt muscles in my neck when Chas Yurowski walked into the cafeteria with his crew of Rich Kid Guys and their designated muscle, Barker. Yurowski wore the collar up on his polo shirt, which framed his gold chain that matched the Rolex on his wrist. In seventh grade, I had nearly strangled him after he went through my stuff at a retreat the school hosted, before I realized how asinine the whole situation was. He had made life miserable for me since, using his extensive network to lock me out of any social happiness in school. After five and a half years, my injury was his opportunity.

He came over to my table, put his foot on an empty chair and leaned over it, so that he was able to look at Aubrey’s considerable cleavage.

“Hey Aubrey, your tits look great today. Wanna grab a movie and fuck Saturday night?”

Aubrey made a disgusted noise and looked away. I felt my heart kick into high gear as the first adrenaline hit. I stood up.

“What’s the matter, don’t you like movies?” Chas said, ignoring me. Barker had moved off to my left. I knew he’d come for my neck. See a weakness and exploit it.

Chas continued. “I mean, I know you like to fuck. Everyone knows that. I just though you might like to again,--“

“Fuck off, Chas,” I cut in. “Now.”

“--since I’m sure the limp-dick fag here can’t get it up for you,” he continued, ignoring me.

I can handle insults. The popular clique had been throwing them my way for quite some time. They had hurt, but didn’t by then. I had finally found my own friends and a beautiful girlfriend, and graduation was only five months away. I could see the light at the end of the tunnel, and had decided it wasn’t an oncoming train. I just wanted to graduate and get to college. Insults were rarely a reason to fight. I had learned this the hard way. However, I have not attained complete enlightenment. I was, and still am, territorial of my women-folk.

“Go away, Chas,” Aubrey said, politely paraphrasing my earlier command.

There was a tinge in her voice, fear I think, because she knew this wasn’t a fight I’d win. Chas, and more importantly, Barker, were not going away. Barker put his hand on me and tried to shove me back down in the seat. I resisted. My neck hurt, and I tried to ignore it, but a ripple of pain in my jaws betrayed me. Aubrey was right. I wasn’t going to win this fight.

“You got something to say, Spears?” Barker growled.

Suddenly, Salamanca was just there, between Barker and me. Salamanca smelled like fresh cigarettes, probably having just finished one outside the cafeteria. I didn’t mind at the time.

“The fuck you want, burn-out?” Barker barked at Salamanca.

“You and your buddies get out of here,” Salamanca said in an even, firm voice.

“You don’t tell me what to do, burn-out.”

I found myself a detached observer at this point. I couldn’t admit then, but I was grateful for Tony’s intervention. I knew Tony enough to know he wouldn’t care about gratitude, that he was doing this for his own reasons. Probably, because he wanted a shot at Barker.

“Barker, just cause your old man beats your ass at home, don’t mean you can here,” Salamanca said. The pale splotches on Barker’s face flushed even with his permanently red cheeks . He cursed and swung at Salamanca. Salamanca stepped inside the punch, blocking with his left forearm. He fired a compact right into Barker’s nose, which exploded with blood. Barker was tough, and though his eyes watered, he came at Salamanca smoothly with a left to the body. Not smooth enough. Salamanca pivoted and fired another right into Barker’s face, then a left. Barker changed tactics and barreled into Tony, trying to pick him up and slam him on the ground. It was a mistake, and Salamanca suddenly had him on the ground, choking him from behind.

“Get the fuck—gah,” Barker managed before Salamanca cut his air

“Get the fuck what?” Salamanca said. His voice was still that same even tone, with only a trace of hostility. Salamanca held him long enough for a smart man to give up, but Barker was still flailing around. Chas apparently had enough at this point, and moved to kick Salamanca in the head. Even in a neck brace, I was still more than enough for Chas. I caught him with an elbow to the teeth, followed by a knee to the stomach. He dropped to his knees and puked blood, and for a moment I was worried I really hurt the dumb bastard. None of the rest of his clique moved.

Barker’s face was a purple by that point.

“You ready to play nice?” Salamanca said to him.

“Fuck you,” Barker managed.

“Guess you don’t need to breathe yet.”

Barker gurgled as Salamanca tightened his hold. Someone from Barker’s clique snickered a little. Barker had thirty pounds, easy, on Salamanca. Now, the biggest badass in the school could only breathe when the school dirt bag let him. Barker would have blushed. Except, blood couldn’t get to his head. Salamanca: cool, calm. He wasn’t trying to kill Barker, just show him something. Kids today would call it being owned. Barker, ever slow-witted and stubborn, cussed at Tony whenever he gave him some air, thereby stretching out the whole scene to a comedic length. Even Barker’s clique was chuckling, except for Chas who still knelt on the floor where I’d dropped him. It may have gone even longer, except that I spotted Mr. Bryson loping his lanky frame toward the lunchroom. Mr. Bryson was famous for his sneaked cigarettes, during which this melee had ensued.

“Bryson,” I said to Salamanca.

Chas managed to get to his feet. One of his crew gave him a napkin to staunch the blood. Salamanca nodded at me and whispered something in Barker’s ear. When he released him, Barker staggered to his feet and marched out of the cafeteria, nearly colliding with Mr. Bryson. I liked Mr. Bryson. He was one of the few teachers who knew the score, knew that Chas was a little shit. He surveyed the scene, saw that there was no permanent damage and walked back out to have another cigarette.

#

I park my truck and look at the old brick building housing Tony’s office. The rain is beating honestly now. The building is free of graffiti and the sidewalk and front steps do not even reveal as much as a cigarette butt, though they could definitely use a mason. Tony wasn’t a particularly clean guy in high school and he often had gone days without shaving, but the Marines had changed him into someone who liked his HQ squared away.

I don’t know if it’s right to involve him in this, but my reverie convinced me he is the only guy I can go to. I climb down out of the truck and walk up the policed steps through the light rain. His office is on the first floor. I think he lives on the second. I buzz to be let in.

“Yeah?” Tony says in through the intercom.

“It’s Spears.”

“Holy shit.”

The door buzzes open. I find him sitting with his feet up on his desk, a cigar tucked into his mouth on the right side and a Buffalo Sabres mug in his hand. Despite his mullet and attire, he has an air of professionalism about him. He sees me and puts down his coffee.

“Spears, what the hell have you gotten yourself into?”