The Rampage of Ryan O'Hara

by James R. Pera

  CHAPTER

  23

  Ryan had an uneventful trip through Colorado and Kansas after his encounter with the state police. He arrived in the Kansas City, Missouri area late in the evening and a little ahead of schedule, so he began entertaining thoughts of visiting the Truman Museum in Independence the next day. After that, time permitting, he’d drive up to Kearney and visit the James farm.

  Always a fan of the late president, he admired the leadership of the feisty little Missourian known as Give ’em Hell Harry, whose accomplishments included using the atomic bomb to end World War II, implementation of the Marshall Plan, integrating the armed forces, and kicking the commies out of South Korea.

  Addicted to books and movies about Western gun-fighters and outlaws, Ryan also looked forward to taking the side trip to the boyhood home of Frank and Jesse James. They were still revered as folk heroes by some Missourians who chose to ignore some of their more infamous acts.

  Pulling into a rest stop just off the interstate to check out a map of the area, Ryan decided to call Carol. He missed her and longed to hear her sweet voice. Dialing, he waited for her to pick up the phone and was disappointed when her voice mail answered instead.

  After ending the call, he surveyed the area, as he always did before exiting his car. In his rearview mirror, he saw a figure dart past the back of the vehicle.

  Aware that he was alone in the parking lot with no other travelers nearby, he reached under the seat and retrieved his .41 magnum, which he brought up and leveled in the direction of a knife-wielding man, who opened the driver’s side door.

  “And just what the fuck can I do for you, shit for brains?” Ryan asked as the man—a skinny, bare-chested, tattooed skinhead, wearing a leather vest and blue jeans—stopped dead in his tracks and stood staring blankly at his intended victim.

  Ryan got out of the car and advanced toward the man, who began to back away.

  “I, uh… I…” the man croaked.

  “Spit it out, asshat. What is it that you want? Do you want to rob me? Is that what you want? Well, come on ahead, then. Rob me, punk. Take your best shot. Stab me with your knife,” Ryan sneered as he moved menacingly toward his would-be attacker.

  The skinhead dropped his knife and put his hands in the air, as if thinking that would somehow end his predicament.

  “Uh-uh, asshole. No. You’re not gonna come at me with a knife and then give up because the deck’s been turned. Pick it up, dickhead. Pick up your fucking shiv and finish what you started,” Ryan ordered. He was enjoying this little encounter and wondered how many poor, unsuspecting travelers had fallen victim to this scummy little cockroach.

  Ryan caught a shadow moving toward him out of the corner of his eye and swung around just in time to see another puke-faced degenerate coming at him. Pulling the trigger of his magnum, he center-punched the would-be assailant and sent him flying backward to the ground, where he rolled in agony. Ryan approached and kneecapped the screeching criminal in both legs.

  As he turned back around, he saw the first man running away and quickly fired two shots into his buttocks, sending him flying forward on his belly.

  After a quick scan of the area to make sure there were no security cameras that needed destroying, Ryan got back in his car and raced for the on-ramp, where he turned on his headlights and headed east.

  Stopping in Kansas City, with side trips to Independence and Kearney, was now out of the question. It was imperative that Ryan put as much distance as possible between himself and the two dirtballs that he’d shot up before someone discovered them.

  He didn’t know if they’d survive and he really didn’t give a damn. The one he’d gut-shot and capped in the knees might not, but the other one only had a couple of bullets in his ass, so he’d probably make it.

  Ryan felt good about what he’d done and wasn’t worried about them giving a description. Who’d believe them or give a shit anyway? And besides, he’d be out of the state before any unlikely BOLO was put out for his car. Chances were that they were both wanted for something and the cops would get a big laugh out of the fact that someone did them the same way they’d undoubtedly done others.

  Totally jacked up on adrenaline, Ryan bypassed Kansas City and didn’t stop until he’d put about a hundred miles between himself and the rest stop where he’d ventilated the two punks. After a pit stop for gas and a large coffee to go, he continued on. At the rate he was traveling, he’d be in St. Louis before dawn. He could rest up there before pushing on.

  The sun was just coming up when he saw the St. Louis Arch looming on the horizon. Pulling into the first coffee shop he came to, he went inside and grabbed some bacon and eggs. His next task was finding a place to stay for a few hours.

  He found a small motel with an AAA sign. The proprietor was gracious enough to charge him half rate when he told him he’d be leaving by noon and only needed a few hours to catch up on some sleep. The man also agreed to give Ryan a wake-up call.

  The office rang at eleven a.m. Ryan checked out and thanked the guy at the desk. As he left the office, a headline on one of the newspapers in the rack outside the door shouted out at him with the words, EXTRA! FUGITIVES IN MISSOURI PRISON-BREAK CAUGHT! The pictures on the front page were of the two creeps he’d put holes in a few hours earlier. “Holy Christ,” he thought, “I hit the jackpot on that one.”

  It turned out that both men were serving long prison terms. One of them, a guy named Cletus Godwin, was doing twenty-five to life for kidnapping and armed robbery. The other, Brandon Lee Burrows, a serial rapist, was serving two consecutive life sentences. They’d been able to conceal themselves in a truck leaving the prison after making deliveries. They had been on the loose for a couple of weeks.

  The article went on to relay how they’d been found shot in the parking lot of a rest stop near a car they’d stolen earlier in the week and that both were expected to live, although Burrows was in critical condition from bullet wounds in his upper abdomen and knees.

  Both escapees were under sedation and had not yet been interviewed by police. Ryan was pleased about that. He’d probably be in New York by the time they were and knew that the more distance he put between himself and Kansas City, the better.

  CHAPTER

  24

  Finnegan stayed home for a couple of days after Siobhán’s departure and tried to figure out what he could do to protect himself from the killer he was convinced was headed his way. Should he carry the illegal gun he had stashed in the closet and risk getting stopped by the cops, who would more than likely be delighted to hit him with the Sullivan Act? Or should he perhaps hire one of the neighborhood goons to shadow him and take out anyone caught tailing him?

  One thing was certain. He couldn’t hang out at home like a cornered rat forever. He had a business to run and bills to pay. Besides, by the sound of things, he wouldn’t be able to hide from whoever was doing in his friends. The killer, whoever he was, seemed to have the senses of a homing pigeon.

  “Screw it,” he thought. “I’ll carry the gun and I’ll call around and get some muscle to back me up as well.” Finnegan picked up the phone and dialed one of the many shady characters who hung around his bar.

  When the party on the other end picked up, Finnegan said, “Louie, I have a problem.”

  Louie Vitanza liked to pass himself off as an important member of the underworld, but he was really nothing more than a petty crook. His main venue was fencing stolen property, pushing dime bags of heroin, and talking shit about his “connections.” Those connections, which were minor at best, made him feel like a big shot and, in his eyes at least, made up for his small stature.

  Louie cited his so-called connections as a means to impress and attain leverage with unsuspecting contacts, and in a lot of cases the exaggerations worked. He even had some people believing he was a made man, although the real wise guys, who used him to run flunky errands once in a while, would probably bust his chops if they thought he was misrepresenting himself as one
of them.

  “Yeah, so what’s yous problem and how can I helps ya wid it, paisan?” Louie responded.

  Finnegan began to explain, “You know about my past as a…”

  “Yeah, yeah, I knows all about dat, Paddy. Da pictures is all ova da walls in dat bar a yours. So save yous bredth and jus led me know what dats got ta do wid yous callin’ me,” Louie cut in.

  “What an illiterate fuck this imbecile is,” Finnegan thought, annoyed that he had to reach down into the gutter to solicit help from this uneducated, mentally challenged idiot.

  “People are being stalked and bumped off, Louie. They’re people from my past—the ones you say you already know about from hanging out at my bar. There’s a pattern developing and I’m guessing that I’m going to be getting a visit from the killer very soon. I was thinking that…”

  “I got it. Yous thinkin’ dat your ole paisan, Louie, can get some of his friends ta give ya some cova. No problem, Paddy my boy. I knows some pretty bad actoes out dere and I tink I’s can set somethin’ up fo yous. Jus give me a day or two, capisce?”

  “Yeah, you fuckin’ weasel, I capisce,” Finnegan thought to himself before replying, “Okay, Louie, I appreciate it. And the sooner the better. I really have an uneasy feeling that this guy may already be in New York.”

  Finnegan hung up, grabbed his gun from the closet, and headed out the door, feeling slightly relieved that at least he was initiating a defensive plan for himself. Little did he know how accurate his statement to Louie had been when he’d proclaimed “this guy may already be in New York.”

  CHAPTER

  25

  Ryan didn’t have any trouble finding Patrick Finnegan. The barkeep’s name and address were in the phone book and, after familiarizing himself with the area, Ryan was able to find Finnegan’s home in a quaint little Brooklyn neighborhood. He watched as Finnegan exited his house and entered his car and then followed as he pulled out of his driveway and drove away.

  Like a lot of working-class New Yorkers, Finnegan chose not to live in Manhattan. It wasn’t about the cost of living as much as that he’d lived in Brooklyn most of his life and saw no reason to uproot himself from the old neighborhood. Besides, the commute wasn’t bad, especially in the early afternoon when he went to work.

  A half hour passed before they arrived on the street where Finnegan’s pub was located. The terrorist-turned-barkeep pulled into an alley and parked in back of the place. Ryan, unable to find a parking place, took note of the location and drove off, finding a spot on the next block. He walked back and entered Finnegan’s place, taking one of the stools at the end of the bar.

  Finnegan was looking over receipts with the day-shift bartender. “I’ll be with you in just a minute,” Finnegan said, acknowledging Ryan.

  Ryan nodded and glanced around the room, making a mental note of the layout and looking at the pictures on the walls. Yep, he was in the right place all right. Now all he needed to do was decide how he was going to carry out his plan. Would he do it at the bar or at the scumbag’s house? What method would he use? “We shall see,” he thought as Finnegan approached.

  “What’ll it be?” he asked.

  “Guinness,” Ryan replied.

  “Haven’t seen you in here before. You new in the neighborhood?” Finnegan asked as he placed the drink in front of him.

  “Visiting my sister. She lives a few blocks from here. She’s an associate professor at Columbia,” Ryan lied.

  “You don’t say. I went to Columbia back in the late sixties,” Finnegan said, waiting for a reaction.

  “Good college,” Ryan acknowledged. “A little above my scholastic level, though. Never much cared for school.”

  “What line of work you in?” Finnegan asked.

  “Oh, man, you name it. I’ve done just about everything,” replied Ryan. “Mainly construction, but I’ve also driven long-haul trucks, been to sea, and roughnecked on oil rigs in the Gulf. I’m in between jobs now and thought I’d look around the area for a few weeks while I’m visiting Sis. Maybe I’ll find something up here and settle down near her. She’s all I have left in the way of family and I’d kind of like to get to know her kids.”

  “Some of the regulars will be in later this afternoon, starting around four-thirty. You might be able to get some information about jobs from them. Most of them are in the trades. We don’t get too many of the Columbia or professional crowd in here. Strictly working class all the way,” offered Finnegan, who was beginning to relax and wonder if maybe his first instincts about Ryan may have been a little paranoid. He looked and sounded like a regular enough fellow and didn’t seem particularly interested in the photos on the wall or in learning anything about Finnegan’s college days. That information had been meant as bait, and evidently the fish weren’t biting.

  Ryan nursed his Guinness and ordered a second one. He decided to hang around a while and see what kind of clientele Finnegan’s place attracted.

  CHAPTER

  26

  Dahkwan Ghannam looked up from his porn magazine and asked, “Infidel, what bring you here to your brother Dahkwan?”

  Louie Vitanza was a lowlife, but even he felt dirty and in need of a shower every time he visited Ramallah Liquors. If this dump weren’t such a good source of revenue in his fencing operation, he wouldn’t think of associating with these goat-fucking, subhuman camel-humpers. But they performed services that others wouldn’t, so here he was once again, just another piece of shit in this toilet they called a liquor store.

  “I’s have a friend dat is in a little trouble, Dahkwan. He tinks someone’s afta him and he’s worried dey’s gonna whack him. So’s he asked me ta fine someone ta follow him whereva he goes and see if dey’s can get da drop on dis cat. I thoughts dat maybe yous and Habib might want ta make a few bucks and do da tail. We can split da take tree ways. Should be an easy score wit minimal risk. Waddaya say?

  “How much we get pay, friend?” asked Ghannam.

  “We can discuss dat after yous talk ta yous cousin. If yous agree, I’ll call my fren and get a price we can agree to and we’ll takes it from dere,” Louie replied.

  “HABIB! Come here,” yelled Ghannam.

  Habib Maloof appeared from the back room and walked up to the counter. He looked at Louie and then over at his cousin. He didn’t like Louie and the feeling was mutual. “What you want now, infidel?” he asked Louie. “You got stuff to sell?”

  “Not dis time, Habib. I’s got a job for yous if yous want it, but it’s gotta do wid followin’ someone who wants to off a fren a mine. I’s want yous ta take care of ’em. Don’t wants ta know da details. Just set it up, take da money, an’ get it on. Yous won’t meet my fren and he won’t knows who you is. Dat way no one can rat off anyone if da ting goes sour,” Louie replied.

  “Five thousand, infidel,” Ghannam said.

  “What?” Louie exclaimed.

  “Five thousand dollar. Five thousand dollar for this kind of service,” replied Ghannam.

  “Okay, I’ll calls my fren and see what he says,” replied Vitanza. Louie took out his cell phone and called Finnegan. He handed the phone to Ghannam. “He wants ta talk ta yous. Don’t worries. Jus’ ’cause yous talk wid ’em don’t mean he gonna knows who yous is.”

  Ghannam listened as Finnegan filled him in about his past and then explained why he was concerned about being on the receiving end of a hit.

  “Okay, my friend. You give Louie ten thousand dollar and we have deal… No, no. You give Louie ten thousand dollar or no deal. I get the cash, I go to work… Okay, okay, seven thousand, but if it turn into more than a tail, then ten thousand. You know what I mean, huh? Yeah, yeah, you give Louie money today and we start. Okay? Good. We don’t talk after this. Good-bye.” Ghannam gave the phone back to Vitanza.

  “Yeah, I’lls be right ova. Have it ready,” Vitanza said as he ended the call.

  “I thought yous said five thousand. What gives, Dahkwan?” Louie asked.

  Ghannam stared at Louie and gri
nned. “You no need worry, my friend. He gladly pay. I listen to story and know he willing to pay anything to save his ass. You should be happy. That make more money for the three of us. Now go get it and bring it to Dahkwan and we start when you come back.”

  Louie left and headed back into Manhattan for what was sizing up to be an easy payday.

  CHAPTER

  27

  Ryan watched the after-work crowd as they began arriving at Finnegan’s bar. Most of them appeared to be ordinary guys coming in to unwind, play a few games of pool, and have a couple of beers before heading home. One of them, however, didn’t fit the mold. The greasy little olive-skinned guy with the slicked-back hair and pencil-thin mustache, wearing a cheap, pink sport coat and tan slacks, looked like a pimp. Ryan wondered what he was talking so intently about with Finnegan at the other end of the bar.

  Finnegan yelled across the room, “Hey, Gus, watch the bar for me for a few minutes. I got something I gotta do.”

  “Yeah, sure. No sweat. I’ll just line ’em up on the house until you get back,” joked the stevedore.

  Finnegan disappeared for about fifteen minutes. He went to the back with Louie and took the money from the safe.

  “You’re sure I can count on these guys to cover my ass, right, Louie?”

  “Sure I’m sure. Waddaya tink, I’s gonna hire some doofus off da street dat I don’t know nuttin’ about? Quit sweatin’ and let me handle dis. Yous in good hans.”

  Ryan watched the two men come out of the back room and made eye contact with Vitanza as he passed by on his way to the door. Something wasn’t right about him and he had a bulge under his coat that hadn’t been there earlier. He wasn’t a working stiff, that’s for sure. But just what was this sleazeball’s major malfunction? Ryan wondered as he downed the rest of his Guinness and followed him out the door. It wasn’t so much that he suspected anything. It was just that he had a feeling about this creep, and when he got these types of vibes, he usually couldn’t resist the urge to follow up on them. It was an old habit and it had saved his bacon on more than one occasion.