The Innocents

by Nathan Senthil

  And that’s what Ryatt would do. Flaunt his skills—shoot first, intimidate everyone in the vicinity with shock and terror, then watch them turn into putty in his hands. Hadn’t Ryatt got what he wanted only after killing someone, having wasted so much time appealing to the better senses of man? Ryatt had decided it wouldn’t be like that anymore. It would be fast, effective, and streamlined. For his method to work, the targets must be incapacitated within seconds, either by bullets or fear. So ‘fast draw’, as the gun magazines named it, was the most important skill he could master.

  Ryatt put the tip of his thumb in his mouth and nibbled on the skin. It didn’t exactly callus but slightly hardened. Maybe Ryatt should switch to pistols soon and forsake his SW Model 63 22LR.

  While Leo and Thomas had been partying, chilling, and fucking, Ryatt was dreaming. Ryatt didn’t smoke, drink, or even have a girlfriend. He was a teetotaler. His only pleasure came from robbing, the guarantee that he and his mom would never suffer again.

  That’s what he was thinking about now. The trio needed to graduate in order to make a proper income. Twenty grand was a lot for many, but for someone who didn’t have anything at all, from a small TV to a big house with a pool and beautiful garden in the back, twenty grand was a pittance and grossly insufficient.

  As Ryatt thought about their next hit, the music stopped, and a minor ruckus ensued. Ryatt rolled his eyes. Probably more small-timers trying to measure their dick sizes by kicking each other’s face in.

  But when Ryatt sat up and looked over the windshield, he found that was not the case.

  An Alfa Romeo had rolled onto the floor, parting the crowd. The car’s passenger was young, probably in his early thirties, but demanded supreme respect from the mafias, both Italian and Black. He was the untouchable Thomas talked about the other day.

  “Mr. Hat,” Thomas said, his voice grave.

  Ryatt didn’t need to be told who that was. Only one person he knew of travelled in that not-very-inconspicuous Cosa Nostra vehicle. An insufferable sense of dread wrapped around his heart the moment he saw it. The same car that had dragged his mom away that evening, leaving the parasites to fester upon his eyesight, slowly turning him blind.

  Bugsy didn’t pay attention to the fact the car had come to a stop because he was sitting in the back, two girls smooching him from both sides. They eventually licked their way down his chest and their heads disappeared under the window.

  The front doors flew open and two white guys alighted. One was slim and tattooed. He wore a tank top, which for some reason, they called a wife beater; the other had on a shiny purple shirt, a gold chain, white-blond hair, and thick eyebrows; his body shook like a Jell-O blob as he waddled. Must be stuffing in pounds of cheesecakes but avoiding the gym like a plague.

  Wifebeater was clearly a street soldier but Cheesecake was from the upper echelons.

  Ryatt had been waiting for a chance like this to hit Bugsy; he cast a look at Thomas who gave a subtle shake of the head. Goddamn it, he was correct. Bugsy, before driving into a black hangout, would have intimated the leaders in this part of the city. Maybe paid them, too. If something happened to Bugsy, right then and there, the whole gang of black hoods would descend on them. They wouldn’t like to hurt one of their own, but it’s how it worked. Mutual respect, they said.

  There was also a possibility that the Alfa Romeo could be bulletproofed. Ryatt’s pathetic .22 would hardly make a scratch, and by the time Ryatt shot enough rounds to penetrate it, Bugsy would have climbed to the front and driven away.

  As hard a fact as it was to digest, it was not the right time. Ryatt pulled a lollipop from his pocket and sucked on it.

  That obsequious runt, Congo, jogged toward Cheesecake, his shoulders slouched in subservience. He whispered something to Cheesecake, and they turned towards their Caddy.

  Ryatt’s fingertip brushed against the gun at his hip. He might not have the fastest draw in the world, but in the last three months, he’d shot thousands of rounds in target practice. Spending time and dough to learn this requisite ability was a lifetime investment. No criminal that Ryatt knew exercised this skill. So he didn’t fear gangsters, because by the time they fumbled with their guns, cocked it, and took aim, Ryatt would have emptied his cylinder and made every bullet count.

  As the Italians made their way towards them, Congo shouted, “Party’s over.”

  Almost all the YBI vacated the space, and Congo had to intimidate a few drunk hecklers into leaving. The congregation waited until the floor was empty; then Congo addressed Thomas, “Buddha. You know who these gentlemen are, right?”

  “Sure.” Thomas got down from the car. So did the other two.

  Wifebeater smirked at Ryatt. “Are you sucking on a lollipop?” Then he spotted the holster on Ryatt’s hip and burst out laughing. “What the fuck is that? You kids playing cowboys and Indians?”

  Someone giggled. Not Congo or Cheesecake or even Bugsy. It was Leo. Thomas gave him a look, ordering him to put his fucking ticks on a leash.

  Leo knew why Ryatt wore the holster. He was the person Ryatt really opened up to about life, about his mom, about guns, though Ryatt always wondered if the psychopath ever felt the same brotherhood.

  “You think I’m funny?” Wifebeater asked Leo, who, not breaking his character, giggled again.

  “Cut it out,” Thomas warned but Leo didn’t pay attention to him.

  Wifebeater looked Leo up and down as his eyes shrank. Seemed like he couldn’t figure out if the tiny black boy was alright in the head.

  Wifebeater turned his attention back to Ryatt.

  “Seriously, kid. You watch too many Westerns. Do you always show off your little gun like that?”

  Nope. Ryatt only carried his gun to places where it was absolutely necessary. Like here at the hangout, or if he went to rob. Not always. Only gangsters needed to do that, as they never knew from where and when an enemy might jump out on them.

  Wifebeater was still going at it, preaching. Ryatt was tempted to yawn.

  “… I mean what kind of a criminal carries a gun in a fucking holster?”

  Um… the smart kind?

  Because it was a thousand times faster to draw a weapon from the holster than to scrabble at the insides of your jacket. Or if the situation demanded, shoot it from the hip. Fast draw was so effective that they taught it in the military. But Ryatt didn’t wish to share his wisdom with a shallow-minded two-bit gangster like Wifebeater. So he kept quiet. Maybe a perfect moment would present itself for Ryatt to display his skill, prove its necessity, and earn their respect.

  “I’m talking to you.” Wifebeater produced a silver-plated pistol from behind him. “Answer me, you bastard.”

  And there it was. The perfect moment.

  Ryatt drew his little gun and shot the pistol out of Wifebeater’s hand.

  Along with his thumb.

  Less than half a second, Ryatt timed and shifted the candy in his mouth. Not bad, but he had a long, long way to go to become the best. Some legendary gunslingers clocked at less than a tenth of a second. To shoot two targets.

  No one finished processing what their eyes had just seen. Everyone froze, except Leo who sprinted towards Wifebeater’s pistol on the floor and retrieved it. However, Thomas and their guests were dumbstruck. Even Bugsy stopped and looked up.

  Wifebeater doubled over and clutched his hand, screaming at the top of his lungs and mixing profanities in-between.

  “I apologize,” Cheesecake spoke in a thick Italian accent. “My associate has very bad manners.”

  “You apologize?” the boorish man with a missing digit yelled. “That runt shot me! That dirty—”

  “Shut the hell up!” Cheesecake ordered. “That potty mouth of yours has already cost you a finger. You sure you wanna run it again and bust a ball? Just… just go to the car and wait, will you?”

  Having been lessoned in humility, Wifebeater walked away, but not before giving Ryatt the stare.

  Cheesecake walked closer
to them, extending his arm. “I’m Roman.”

  “I’m American,” Ryatt said but didn’t offer his hand in return, which still had the gun in it.

  Roman eyed the revolver and lifted his hand. “No need for violence. What I meant was, my name is Roman. Weird, uh?” He let out a laugh, which had no substance to it.

  “I agree,” Thomas tried to sound cool but bit his tongue and said, “I mean, uh… the violence part. Not the weird-name part.”

  Roman didn’t acknowledge Thomas. Instead of responding, he regarded the bloody mangled finger on the floor.

  Leo watched Roman’s discomfort and giggled again, with a lot of throat. This time it was Ryatt who looked at him and shook his head. Leo covered his snicker and nodded.

  “That’s impressive and ferocious.” Roman turned and gave Bugsy a wave-off, signaling him everything was fine. The boss once again leaned back on his seat and closed his eyes, while red and blond heads went back to work.

  Congo said, “I told you, Mr. Rome. These boys ain’t nothing but trouble. With the capital T. No respect, no rules, and no control. Another bunch of Mad Dogs in the making if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Huh? What?” Congo looked confusedly at Roman.

  “I didn’t ask for your opinion,” Roman said, then fixed Ryatt with an intense stare. “I’ve heard about you guys, and you three have the exact wild streak we’ve been shopping for.”

  “Is that right?” Ryatt asked.

  “Uh-huh.” Roman nodded. “I need a job done, so who do I talk to?”

  Leo said, “That would be Mr. Lolly.”

  Roman eyed the white straw poking out of Ryatt’s mouth. “And I bet you’re him.”

  Ryatt shrugged.

  “Straight to business.” Roman clapped and rubbed his pudgy hands. “You heard of MacSharp?”

  “Yeah. The new weapons factory in Livernois Avenue?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “What about it?”

  “You know what are some of the most lucrative robberies? Booze distillers, chemical manufacturers, and automobile factories. But nothing beats the good old guns and bullets.”

  Ryatt, in spite of knowing that it was not very respectful, laughed. “Man, you nuts or something? How we gonna hit a weapons factory? Don’t they have like a private army protecting them?”

  “Not the factory. You’re hitting their truck.”

  Ryatt frowned as cogs in various parts of his brain projected different scenarios. The foremost question it raised was, “What do you need us for?”

  “Heard you are the best of the best when it comes to truck jobs. We need your expertise.”

  That was far from the truth because Ryatt’s mind had spat the answer. Their expertise wasn’t what the Detroit Alliance needed. It was their expendability.

  Shaking his head, Ryatt holstered his gun. “We did one job and that’s that. So our expertise can’t be the only reason.”

  “Alright, you got me, Mr. Lolly.” Roman sighed and lifted his hands. “The truth is, all our guys are known to the cops. We need someone new.”

  Wrong again. Roman was a good actor. He pretended to give credibility to ‘Mr. Lolly’ trying to feed Ryatt’s ego. He wanted Ryatt to believe he was both smart and needed. The real truth was, they needed Ryatt because he was disposable. No one gave a shit about three poor black kids who’d gone missing. That thought angered him.

  However Ryatt decided he would play this game along, hoping to manipulate it to his advantage.

  “Okay. Count me in. But what about the recon?” Ryatt acted all innocent, but he knew how Italians operated. There must be a snitch working undercover in the factory.

  “We have a routine to infiltrate businesses like these,” Roman answered, confirming Ryatt’s suspicion. “Our guy has burrowed himself deep in the logistics side of MacSharp.” Roman’s eyes beamed. “We have a date and route.”

  Ryatt matched the excitement in Roman’s eyes. “All we need to do now is just hijack the truck?”

  “You got it.” Roman dared to reach out and grab hold of Ryatt’s shoulder. “And when you do, you will be well rewarded.” A warm smile stretched Roman’s lips.

  Ryatt mirrored the dubious expression and crushed the candy with his teeth. “Then we’re in business.”

  Chapter 9

  December 24, 1981. 11:11. P.M.

  Ryatt stood near the opening of a dead-end alley, safely tucked away from streetlights. Roman had dropped them off two minutes ago and given them masks. Bugsy’s gift, apparently.

  Ryatt had received a green zombie design, a prosthetic wear big enough to cover his head and neck. Only thirty seconds had passed since he wore the mask but he disliked it already. It was stuffy, the breathing holes were disproportionate, and the most irritating thing was the rank of rubber, which was not doing wonders for Ryatt’s upper intestines; the acid and half-digested mash of the dinner he ate earlier was pushing up his esophagus. If some improvisation wasn’t done, history would repeat itself.

  Fuck it. Ryatt removed the mask and inserted his hand into the opening. Grabbing hold of the lips from inside, he bit the soft rubber.

  “Goddamn heathens.” A woman’s voice filled the alley.

  Ryatt stopped his work and turned back. No one. Where did—

  Then he looked up. An old woman was observing him with disinterest from her balcony, a cigarette dangling between her fingers.

  “That new crack shit,” the old woman said. “It’s making y’all boys a bunch of looneys.”

  Ryatt frowned. “What you talking about, Grandma?”

  “The hell are you kissing that demon, boy?”

  Kissing? What the fu—oh…

  Ryatt couldn’t help but smile. “I ain’t kissing it, Grandma. I’m just putting a hole through it.”

  “Hole? What for?”

  “Because this mask had been too nosey.” Ryatt pulled his gun from the holster and pointed it at the head with ghostly hair. “Now you mind your goddamn business or I will put one through yours.”

  The old woman’s eyes widened, but not as much as Ryatt would have liked. She was mildly anxious at best.

  “That cute trinket supposed to scare me? Boy, let me tell you. When I served in the ANC, I was stationed in France during the Battle of Normandy. I treated the most horrible wounds. Wounds from tanks, bombshells, and .50s. Your little toy ain’t shit.”

  “American Nurse Corp?” Ryatt put the toy back in, blushing. He wasn’t gonna shoot her anyway. Thought he would scare her away, but apparently, she had survived tougher terrains. He could relate. You didn’t threaten someone like that; you either killed them or moved on.

  “You know what ANC is?” the old woman asked.

  “I used to read a lot, ma’am.”

  “You can put alphabets together?”

  “The best in school, in a different life.”

  “In a different life, he says,” she scoffed. “You must be what? Fifteen? You don’t have a different life, boy. You barely have one. Barely half!” She took a drag and spoke, smoke ejecting out in angry puffs. “What a good boy like you doing in an alley like this, fiddling with a mask and a gun?”

  “Good question, ma’am.” A bout of goosebumps ran across Ryatt’s skin, his nostrils prickled, and eyes welled. “But you’re asking it to the wrong person. Ask it to the big man above. I’ve been asking it for as long as I can remember.”

  “Oh then it’s gonna be a long wait, dear.” The old woman pinched the smoldering orange with her fingertips, making Ryatt wince. “When I saw what I’ve seen in the battlefields, I stopped going to church. I mean, what kind of a god lets a mean little man with a funny little mustache tear such a hideous scar in human history?”

  “An indifferent god?” Ryatt said.

  The old woman chuckled. “You’re bright, boy. I hope you know what business you’ve got yourself into.”

  “I do, ma’am.”

  “And the most important question you gotta
ask yourself is,” the old woman stood straight. “Am I making my momma proud?”

  That caught Ryatt’s tongue. Before he could contrive an answer, she disappeared into the house, shutting the window.

  Ryatt looked down at the disfigured face in his hand. “No,” he whispered.

  Taking in a huge breath, he tossed the candy into his mouth, wore the mask over it, and inserted the straw through the small nip he had just made on the mask’s mouth.

  “What’s that about?” a voice enquired from the alley across the road.

  “Tell you later.”

  “Okay.”

  Leo and Ryatt lay in wait on a lonely stretch in Livernois Avenue which was deserted at this time of night. The thirty-mile road used to be ‘Avenue of Fashion’, inundated with small businesses that sold clothing, shoes, and ornaments. Since the advent of malls, the Avenue began disintegrating, leaving behind empty retail shops as its legacy. By the mid-seventies, it was known as an obscure dark road where bad things often happened.

  A high-pitched horn in the distance pierced the chilly night. Ryatt darted a look out of the alley. On his right was a railroad crossing. The bells rang, lights flashed, and the arms lowered.

  Ryatt turned left. Their quarry usually drove through Tyler Street and merged with Livernois Avenue at the crossroads, twenty yards from where Ryatt and Leo had holed up.

  Shit. The truck was always punctual, but today, of all days, it was late. Roman said valuable merchandise would be transported only once every semester; today was one such occasion. What if MacSharp took extra precautions by sending along a convoy? Ryatt and Leo could try to take them out, but if the timing wasn’t right, there was nothing anybody could do.

  The train’s horn blared when it slowed and passed the crossing. As it choo-chooed away, the vibration reached Ryatt’s feet and its rhythmic pounding on the road brought to his mind the hooves of horses.

  The truck should turn into Livernois Avenue within the next minute if the plan was to work smoothly.