The Last Savage

by Sam Jones

  “But somehow, in some deeply rooted part of our psyche are the emotions that keep us anchored, that prevent us from hitting that ‘big button’ to blow it all up. Permanently. Even if someone as out there as Nixon tries to light the world on fire, I believe enough good people are around to put it out before it destroys everything. We may have a lot of bad habits as a species, but it seems that the good people in this world always stop the bad from completely destroying it.”

  “You one of those good guys?”

  Billy thought hard. “I haven’t slightest idea…”

  Neither did Maria.

  Both of them comfortably shared the silence. Maria took a long look at Billy as he glanced away and found a few more of his brighter colors starting to shine through. If the used-car analogy worked best to describe him, then Maria found Billy Reese to be a more appealing model once she actually got behind the wheel and familiarized herself with how the car itself handled—smooth with a few bumps.

  “How,” Maria said, “did we get on this subject in the middle of everything we got going on?”

  Billy thought about it a long beat.

  He shrugged. “It happens.”

  Maria smirked. She had been highly skeptical of the Billy Reese model before.

  But now she liked it.

  Well enough.

  “Last question,” Billy said. “And it’s kind of personal.”

  Maria thought about.

  “Shoot.”

  Billy took his time and leaned forward with a hard-nosed detective’s gaze. “All-time favorite movie?” he asked her.

  Maria held the mug from the top and brought it to her lips. “The Breakfast Club,” she said with a wink and a sip.

  Billy did an approving drum roll on the table. “Excellent.”

  He pulled the locker key from the pocket of his jacket and looked at the B19 marking. “Well,” he said to Maria, motioning toward the door. “Shall we?”

  22

  THEY LEFT THE diner and crossed the street toward the glass double doors of the Greyhound bus station facing the intersection: a large five-story structure that occupied an entire block of North Clark street. It was a god-awful-looking and nearly windowless eyesore constructed in a kind of brutalist architecture: a tall, boxy building with all four sides reminiscent of the front grill of a semi truck. Aside from letting people catch a bus, the place had turned into a hub of illicit activity—dealers and tweakers operated out of the bathrooms. People had been mugged, shot, and killed inside the terminals. Billy had even gotten wind through a friend with Chicago PD that John Wayne Gacy had picked up his first victim inside the station.

  That fact by itself gave him the shivers.

  Nonetheless, Billy and Maria moved inside the terminal, slow and on guard, ready to face whatever denizens oozed their way out of the woodwork.

  Across the street from the Greyhound station, about twenty feet from the diner where Maria and Billy were eating, a man stood near a corner. He wore horn-rimmed glasses and toted a striking resemblance to the actor Judd Nelson, a likeness that he had used to advantage with several less-than-brilliant love interests in more recent years. His name was Lowe—former Green Beret turned hit man who killed about two contracts every month and made a decent living while doing it. Freelance. Didn’t work on the holidays or Monday Night Football, and his current employer went by the name of Simon Kruger.

  Lowe was taking the last bites from the hot dog he acquired from the cart he was partially hiding behind as he surveyed Billy Reese and Maria Delgado entering the Greyhound station, his gaze fixated on them like a mountain lion tracking a pair of rabbits. As soon as Billy and Maria were inside, Lowe walked over to a pay phone behind him, put in a quarter, and dialed a number. It rang only once.

  “It’s Lowe,” he said into the phone. “Your cops are at the bus station.”

  “Did you put the item in the locker?” Kruger asked from the other side.

  “Done and done.”

  “Good. Keep an eye on them. Call me when they get to the locker.”

  Lowe hung up and moved away from the pay phone. He chowed down the last bit of his hot dog and then looked to the man hanging near the entrance of the building behind him, his partner for the afternoon, a greasy-looking guy with long curly hair and a beard.

  Lowe said to him, “We’re up.”

  They crossed the street together toward the Greyhound station as Lowe wiped the flaky remnants of the bun from his hands and checked on the Beretta tucked away in the back of his pants.

  Ready for another payday.

  The members of Stop Making Sense lined up side by side near the ticket counter of the Greyhound station. They were Chicago’s premier vagabond cover band that only performed dingy but catchy renditions of Talking Heads music, and the Greyhound station served as their current residency.

  There were three of them: the woman with the dreadlocks kept the beat on a small pair of bongo drums. The blind man riffing on a beat-up electric guitar sporting burn marks played through what had to be the world’s tiniest speakers, mounted on a shopping cart with bungee cord. The guy in the suspenders, beret, and the baggy pants sang lead vocals while a synthesized backing track played off a cassette player near his feet, his dancing and gangly demeanor like some kind of cross between Mick Jagger and Bon Scott.

  All three of them had no jobs, a handful of talent, a hat by their feet for donations, and a shared half bottle of vodka coating their stomachs for energy.

  The guy in the beret grinned and pointed to the woman with the dreadlocks to begin their cover of “Life During Wartime” as Maria and Billy pushed the doors open and walked inside the tobacco-stained halls of the Greyhound station. Sneakers squeaked on the floor, voices echoed off the walls like the rumble of a sports arena, and the faint scent of diesel from the buses outside teased the senses like the waft of freshly cooked meal trickling out of a restaurant’s kitchen. While the guy singing the lead to “Life During Wartime” danced in place in a kind of serpentine rhythm, Billy and Maria scanned around the terminal for something that would point them in the direction of the lockers.

  Maria found it first.

  “Billy,” she said as she motioned to the sign about twenty meters ahead of them and to the right over the arching entranceway that lead to another section of the station:

  RESTROOMS

  FOOD COURT

  LOCKERS

  Billy motioned for her to lead the way.

  They made it halfway through the food court when Billy turned to Maria and said, “We’ve got a tail.”

  Maria took a sideways glance over her left shoulder like she was eyeing the pizza joint in the food court when she caught a brief glimpse of two men trailing about twenty feet behind them, both of them dressed like rejected members of The Police with the guy to the left bearing an almost spot-on resemblance to Judd Nelson.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked Billy.

  Billy looked ahead and saw a pair of bathrooms facing each other in the hallway just outside the entrance to the lockers—women’s on the left, men’s on the right.

  Calculation.

  “I gotta see a guy about a horse,” he said, moving toward the men’s room.

  Maria threw him a look. “Are you serious?”

  Billy handed her the locker key. “Go check out the locker. One of them is going to follow you. Probably the guy that doesn’t look like Judd Nelson.”

  Maria took a glance at the thug to confirm Billy’s reference. “Oh, yeah,” she said. “He totally looks like him…”

  Billy slowed his pace and looked around. They were four feet from the bathroom. “Let’s get them separated,” he said.

  “Then what?” Maria asked.

  “Then we find out why they’re following us,” Billy said as he quickly and swiftly slipped into the men’s room.

  “Slick,” Maria said with a click as she made a beeline for the locker section without looking back.

  Behind them, the Judd Nelson�
��looking guy, Lowe, grabbed his partner by the elbow and leaned into his ear. “Follow the girl,” he said as he slowed his pace and calmly followed Billy into the men’s room.

  Right before disengaging the safety on the Beretta tucked in the back of his pants.

  23

  THERE WERE FOUR urinals on the left, four stalls on the right, and four rusted sinks adjacent to the entrance of the men’s room to the left by the entrance. Everything smelled like disinfectant. The white tile floors and walls were covered in indecipherable logos and slangs scribbled in graffiti and permanent marker. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered, and based on the acrid smell coming from the second-to-last stall on the right, Billy was pretty sure someone was inside of it smoking crack.

  Billy whistled like a careless stroller, unzipped his fly, and moved to the last urinal in the row across from the stall, pretending he was oblivious to the guy that had entered the restroom about four seconds after he did. He relieved what little liquid he had stored up in his body as the Judd Nelson–looking fellow who wandered in after him decided to take the urinal two porcelains down from Billy, his gaze focused on the steel handle in front of him while both men pretended to use the facilities.

  Five seconds passed.

  Ten.

  Billy turned his head to the left and stared at Lowe’s profile.

  Lowe turned his head to the right and connected eyes with Billy.

  Billy smiled.

  Lowe looked away.

  Five more seconds passed.

  Ten.

  The entire time the sounds of Stop Making Sense were faintly audible through the walls of the restroom. Around the moment the band hit the chorus, Billy said, “Are you supposed to take me in or just shoot me?”

  Lowe breathed. Waited a beat. “Take you in,” he finally said.

  Billy zipped up his fly. “Is that a solid order, or is killing me an option?”

  Lowe also zipped up. “Only if you do something stupid.”

  Billy breathed.

  Patience…

  “How quick a draw are you?” he asked, both his and Lowe’s heads facing forward as they stood at attention at the urinals like a pair of eager racehorses waiting for the gates in front of them to spring open.

  Lowe said, “The last two guys who wanted to play that game with me were buried alongside each other.”

  “Relatives?”

  “Lovers.”

  Billy whistled. “Hmm. That’s kind of poetic.”

  “It also bodes well for my skill sets.”

  Billy nodded. “That it does…”

  Five seconds passed.

  Six.

  Lowe looked at Billy.

  Billy looked at Lowe.

  Calculation.

  Confidence.

  Patience.

  Control.

  “You know,” Billy said, “up close…you really do look like Judd Nelson.”

  Palms went sweaty and the adrenaline levels in both men began to spike as Talking Heads echoed through the bathroom. Billy’s throat was choking up, and his stomach felt ten shades of queasy. He never liked getting in these kinds of dick-measuring contents.

  It scared the piss out of him.

  Thank God I’m in front of a urinal.

  One second passed.

  Two.

  Boom.

  Both men drew their weapons.

  Both took aim at the same time.

  Both had the drop on the other.

  Shit.

  “Looks like a tie,” Billy said.

  “Looks that way,” Lowe said.

  They waited a quick beat.

  “So,” Billy said. “I guess the only thing—”

  The door to the stall where the crackhead was getting a fix flew open. Behind it, an emaciated and terrified-looking white guy with pockmarks on his face and a faded army jacket that was two sizes too big for him sat on the toilet—a compact .38 in his left hand, and a Smith and Wesson six-shooter in his right, both of them trained on Lowe and Billy with his index fingers curled around the triggers and ready to pull.

  He said, “Give me your money. Now.”

  Billy huffed, somewhat amused at the fateful incredulity of it all. “You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

  24

  THE CRACKHEAD GRINNED. Several of his teeth were missing. The rest were black and yellow. “Put your guns down,” he said, bobbing up and down with crack-fueled delight.

  Billy and Lowe remained in place, weapons trained and safeties off.

  “Now,” the crackhead ordered.

  Lowe and Billy slowly, and in sync, lowered their weapons to the floor and laid them on the tile.

  “Kick ’em over,” the crackhead said.

  “Come on, man,” Billy pleaded. “I’m gonna get piss all over my piece.”

  “Now!” the crackhead screamed.

  Lowe and Billy used their feet to slide the guns over to the stall, and they coasted toward the base of the porcelain bowl, making contact with a metallic clink.

  The crackhead waved his guns. “Wallets. All your money. All your shit.”

  Billy held his hands up higher, reminding the crackhead that he was now the man in charge. “Look,” he said. “Just listen to me for a second—”

  The crackhead cocked the hammers back on both guns at once.

  Billy was shocked that the idiot hadn’t popped off a shot by accident.

  “Money!” the crackhead yelled. “Give. Me. Your. Shit.”

  Lowe and Billy slowly reached toward their back pockets.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Billy could see Lowe wrapping his fingers around something in his waistband.

  Oh, boy…

  “You asshole,” Billy said. “You better not miss.”

  Lowe winked. “I won’t…”

  As the crackhead opened his mouth to bark another order, Lowe unsheathed a switchblade from his waistband, clicked it open, and threw it like a dart at a board. It was quick—slightly less than two seconds passed between the knife coming out and the blade being buried into the crackhead’s larynx.

  Billy was stunned it had worked. It took him a second to process as the crackhead dropped his guns, slid off the toilet, and began clutching at his throat with a bewildered expression forming on his pockmarked face. His heart caught up with him and pumped blood out of the wound.

  Lowe looked at Billy.

  Billy looked at Lowe.

  Both of them slowly slipped into defensive postures: fists clenched, arms slightly raised, and feet separated in a kind of boxer’s stance.

  Billy said, “Not bad.”

  Lowe replied, “Thanks.”

  Get ready…

  Here it comes.

  Both men readied.

  Both men charged.

  They sprinted about three paces toward their guns, lying in wait in the crackhead’s stall at the base of the toiler. As Lowe took his third step, he crouched low and extended his hand out toward his Beretta, his fingertips a couple of inches from the grip.

  Billy saw that Lowe’s face was perfectly exposed on the right as he went into his crouch, so he planted his left foot as he floated back his right for a hard punt to Lowe’s left cheek.

  Only problem was that Lowe saw it coming.

  He abandoned his dive for the Beretta, turned to the left, and caught Billy’s incoming kick with both hands about a half second before the Nike-clad foot was about to make contact with his cheekbone.

  Billy rolled his eyes.

  “Shit.”

  Lowe adjusted his stance, pivoted, and threw Billy onto his back as he shot out of his crouch. Billy landed hard on the tile, quickly reacquainted with that familiar, sickly feeling of having the wind knocked out of him. As he let out an air-deficient groan, Lowe turned back toward the stall and reached out toward the Beretta. In a break-dance-inspired move, Billy kicked his right foot into the back of Lowe’s left leg and dropped him down onto his knee. For a second it looked like Lowe was preparing to propose to
the crackhead squirming like a bloodied fish on the floor inside the stall. Billy, woozy but still in the game, got up, wrapped his left arm around Lowe’s neck, pulled him to his feet, and squeezed—a good old fashioned chokehold.

  But it didn’t hold for long.

  Lowe tilted his hips forward, balled up his right fist, raised it, and then threw it backward straight into Billy’s jewels.

  Billy’s grip on Lowe’s neck now went slack as his brain fought to not see stars.

  Fuck-shit-damn it-Holy Christ!

  Lowe, now out of the choke, turned around, balled up his right hand into fist, and threw a hook. Billy, tender in his bits but still with it, ducked down and left and responded with a solid uppercut with the right under Lowe’s chin and sent the low-blowing dipshit wobbling.

  As Lowe collected his senses, Billy went prone, slid about three feet across the floor, scooped up his Colt, turned onto his back and aimed it at Lowe—Lowe’s head was perfectly lined up between the sights and one squeeze of the trigger away from being split open like a cantaloupe.

  Lowe froze, slowly raised his hands, and sighed his defeat.

  “Quicker draw my ass,” Billy said with a satisfied smirk on his face.

  His expression turned sour.

  “Fuck. My balls…”

  The door to the men’s room flew open.

  Standing in the doorway was the bearded thug who had escorted Lowe inside the Greyhound station, a grimace on his face peppered with beads of sweat.

  Oh, shit.

  Billy waited for the guy to draw and wondered if Maria had fallen prey to his gun. But a second later the guy was shoved inside, Maria standing behind him with her Beretta pointed at his spine and a nice little welt now visible on the bearded guy’s cheek where Maria had clocked him one in the face.

  Billy breathed easy. “Maria Delgado,” he said. “You are a keeper.”

  “Hands on your head,” Maria ordered the bearded chump. “Interlace your fingers.”

  The guy took his time.