The Basement Vault

by Brandon Zenner

  *

  I pulled into my driveway, and looked at the front lawn. It was due for a cut, but that’s not why I was looking at it. I was watching the sedan park down the block.

  Inside, I changed into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, grabbed a beer, and then went outside to the toolshed. I put the beer in a cup holder I’d screwed into the handle of the mower and pulled the cord. The exhaust billowed out in a cloud as the mower came to life. I wanted those grease-balls in the car to watch me. I wanted them to think I didn’t have a clue what they were planning to do to me.

  The night was setting in as I made my final pass with the mower. I tossed the empty beer can in the trash, and wheeled the mower up the ramp and into the toolshed. I took inventory of the various tools lining the wall behind the workbench, and found what I was looking for: a carver’s mallet. Not quite a hammer, but a large, cylindrical wooden head attached to a spindle-type handle. The thing looked like a German hand grenade from World War Two, only larger. Potato mashers, I think they called them. The hammer was heavy, as if made out of steel, and the wood was covered in a thin layer of sticky wax. I found it at a garage sale years ago. Later, someone told me that it was used to hammer at chisels, not nails. You know, for making sculptured and what not. I took the hammer and left the toolshed, locking the door behind me.

  Back in my house, I made a quick dinner of fried steak and some instant potatoes, tucking my .38 snub-nose pistol in the waistband of my pants. I’d been watching a lot of cooking shows on TV the last few years, and my dinners at home had been steadily improving. I fried the steak in a heap of butter with a few cloves of garlic and a sprig of rosemary. I kept spooning the boiling butter over the top of the steak, crisping the top to a golden brown before flipping it to sear on the other side. It was a good method. The potatoes, though, were from a box. I have no patience waiting for water to boil.

  After dinner, I wasted a few hours in front of the TV. I was waiting, killing time. When it got good and late, I turned out all of the lights in the house and made my bed ready. The TV was left on in my bedroom, with the volume low, the gentle light casting flickering shadows over the walls and hallway.

  And then I waited.

  The night wore on for what seemed like an eternity.

  My body was stiff and sore when I heard a noise: a low ticking sound followed by a creak. My assumptions were correct. The lock of the back door had just been picked. Moments later, I heard faint footsteps grow louder, until the forms of two dark figures walked right past me in the hallway. They held pistols in their gloved hands, and the taller of the two men pointed the long barrel of a silenced automatic in the direction of the pillows I’d stuffed under my sheets. The oldest trick in the book. Jesus, these young guys … I was expecting more from them, maybe a head-on fight. This was going to be too easy.

  I stepped out from the closet and swung the mallet at the base of the tall guy’s head. The guy fell like a rock. Before the shorter guy could turn around, I shoved my .38 snub nose pistol into the back his neck.

  “Hello Vlad,” I said.

  He didn’t say anything. His mind was processing the best course of action. Should he swing around and try to fire his magnum at me? And seriously, who brings a magnum to a simple late-night hit? A simple .22 works fine in most cases, or just a knife.

  Vlad said, “Mickey, there you are! We’ve been trying to call you. We were worried.”

  I shook my head, despite him not being able to see me. “Vlad, no one called me.”

  He was silent again.

  “Drop the gun,” I told him.

  He hesitated then tossed the behemoth of a sidearm onto the carpeted floor.

  “Mickey, man, hey, listen—”

  I swung him around to face me, and then gave him a backhand with the carver’s mallet. Not so hard as to cave in his head, but hard enough for Vlad to realize things weren’t going to go in his favor.

  Something flew out of his mouth, a tooth probably, and he collapsed to the floor.

  “Oh, Jesus—Mickey!” He cupped his hand over his shattered face. I would have to find that tooth later. I grabbed him by the ankle and started dragging him down the hallway.

  “Mick-Mickey, wait! What you doing, man?”

  I clicked the bathroom lights on with my elbow, pulled the shower curtains back, yanked Vlad up by his neck, and then tossed him in the bathtub. The back of his head made a clunk sound as it hit the tub. Before he had time to react, I tied his wrists with a plastic zip tie, securing them around the faucet. Then I turned to get the tall guy.

  “I see we’re still using the buddy system, hmm, Vlad?” I yelled over my shoulder.

  He didn’t respond.

  The tall guy was young and strong, like a goddamn Mustang. I looked like an old ox next to him. The guy was starting to wriggle, coming to his senses. He wasn’t needed, so I dropped his torso over the bathtub, on top of Vlad’s feet, and yanked the shower curtain off the hooks to cover the top of his body. I pressed his own silenced pistol at the base of his spine.

  Vlad said, “Oh Jesus, Mick-Mickey!”

  I pulled the trigger and pushed him forward to bleed out.

  Vlad was kicking his feet back, scrambling and flailing over the slick porcelain.

  “We’re friends, Mickey! We’re friends!”

  “Okay,” I said, gripping the wooden handle of the mallet in my palm. “You know how this works: the sooner you talk the faster this goes. I’m a man of my word; I won’t prolong your suffering. Not like you did to Franky.”

  “I-listen, Mickey, I—”

  I held the base of his thigh against the tub, and went to work with the hammer. It barely made a noise at all, but Vlad sure made a fuss. His face was boiling red and contorting dramatically.

  He started wailing, so I yanked a T-shirt from the hamper and pressed it into his face. I whacked some more with the hammer, then took a break and sat back. All of this work was making me sweat.

  I shook my head, “To be honest with you Vlad, I never understood why they let a Russian in the organization.”

  He had nothing to say.

  I gave him another wallop, and then calmly asked, “So, where’s he going to be, hmm? What’s the plan?”

  “I-I-I … Mickey, I don’t know, what—”

  I shoved the shirt back in his face, and went to work on his feet. I missed once and the mallet made a sharp thud against the bathtub.

  “Okay,” he muttered through the shirt. I let him speak. “I tell you, I tell you—”

  He wasn’t talking fast enough, so I gave him another whack. He started talking faster, and I believed every word that came out of his mouth. I knew he was telling the truth. In the back of a dying man’s mind, there is always a thought that he might get out of his predicament if he only tells the truth. A desperate thought that if he starts talking his executioner would spare his life.

  Vlad told me everything: Mr. Carlino’s entire plan. Then he said in his filthy Russian accent, “I tell it all, Mickey. I tell you everything. Why … why you and Frank do this?”

  I smirked. “Why we do this? Shit, only a few hours ago you thought Franky was acting alone. Now you’re assuming that I have something to do with him making a move for power.”

  “We know he don’t work alone, Franky. And you, you were next in line after Merazano. That’s why we—”

  “You know what they say about assuming, right? It makes an ass out of you and me.”

  I stood over him, the hammer in one hand, the pistol in the other.

  Vlad recoiled against the tub. “Hey, Mick—” he muttered, before I aimed and fired. I’m a man of my word. I stripped off my blood-speckled clothing and washed my hands and face, and then I grabbed my cell phone and dialed.

  “It’s me,” I said. “Yeah, it’s on. I need a cleaner … pickup, not delivery. Two loads … okay … yeah, ten o’clock.” I hung up, and then went down on my hands and knees, feeling the carpet for that damn tooth.