by Andy Rausch
The Escalade was stopped for the briefest of moments. At the exact moment Orlando stomped on the gas, Lefty rolled to his right. The Escalade shot forward, turning to its right, away from Lefty. Orlando scraped the nose of the vehicle against the right corner of the truck. Lefty fell over in the street, reaching out for the pistol lying on the pavement, but came up short. As he did, he saw the Escalade disappear around the truck.
Lefty wiggled his body forward, retrieving the Glock. At that moment, a young black UPS driver staggered around the truck. He stood over Lefty as Lefty scraped himself up off the pavement, slowly climbing to his feet. The UPS driver put his hand out to assist Lefty. Lefty put out his right hand, pistol still in it. The UPS driver wrapped his hand around both Lefty's hand and the gun, pulling him to his feet. “You alright?” managed the driver.
For a moment both men wobbled there, as if they were trying to stand still in the midst of an earthquake. Now getting his bearings, Lefty looked past the stunned UPS driver', seeing a silver Prius edging around them slowly. The man driving the vehicle had his window down. He pulled up beside them. “Are you guys okay? I saw what happened—”
Before he could finish, Lefty raised the Glock, aiming it point blank at his face. “Get out,” he said, surprised at the calmness of his voice. The generic-looking middle-aged driver looked flustered, but kind of shrugged, realizing there was nothing else he could do. He climbed out of the Prius. As he did, Lefty kept the gun in his face. He extended his arm, pointing the gun past the man. “Move over there.” The man did as he was told. As he did, Lefty turned and backed towards the open car door. He swiveled the gun towards the UPS driver. Lefty turned and jumped into the Prius, cramming himself into its tight space. He shifted it into drive and the tiny vehicle came to life, speeding away.
Nine
He Is Risen!
When Lefty got back to his Caddy, he could see two police cars parked in front of the hotel. One of them had the flashing blue lights, the other did not. There were a couple of looky-loos congregated, and he could see a single uniformed cop; the others were presumably inside, talking with hotel management. Lefty parked the Prius on the right side of the street, opposite the Caddy. The curb was painted yellow to indicate there was no parking, but that was the least of Lefty's concerns. He opened the door and got out, leaving the keys in the ignition.
Lefty looked past the Caddy at the gathering in front of the Dumont, making sure no one saw him. They didn't. Lefty casually unlocked the driver's side door of the Caddy and climbed in. Now behind the wheel, he started the ignition and the O'Jays once again came to life.
Lefty looked in the rear-view mirror, seeing the scratches on his face. This had been a hell of a day. He dropped the Caddy into drive and moved towards the busy street, turning right and passing the hotel. As he did, he looked at the crowd and the cops, but no one looked at him. As he drove, he thought about Orlando. He'd shot him in the side, but he doubted that would slow him down much. After all, the man was a legend. He wondered if he would see him again. Maybe, just maybe, he and Brooks would be able to finish the job before Orlando could get a chance to make his move. But Lefty doubted it. He was pretty sure he would see the man again, and he knew there would be trouble when he did.
He looked at the sack of cold coneys sitting in the passenger's seat. Lefty considered them. He'd developed an appetite chasing Orlando around the Dumont, so he decided to have another. It wouldn't do much to help his cardio, but at this point Lefty didn't care. He reached over with his right arm—the one with the bullet in its shoulder—and slid a coney from the sack. He tlid the wrapper off the dog and ate it. Not bad, he thought, chowing down. Even after having sat in the sun for an hour, the coney was still pretty damned good.
As he drove, the O'Jays now singing “Let Me Make Love to You,” Lefty kept a close eye on the rear-view mirror, fully expecting the cops to show up at any minute. He wondered if the Dumont had caught the shootout on camera. In this day and age, pretty much every business had a camera, so he assumed the answer was yes.
Lefty was a couple blocks away from the motel where Brooks and Dixie were keeping Layla. He stopped at a light. He had been driving with both windows down, and he could now hear screaming outside. He looked over at the sidewalk beside him and saw a dirty old gray-haired black man standing there holding a sign. It read: “HE IS RISEN!” The old man saw him looking. He stopped yelling for a moment and stepped off the curb, leaning towards the Caddy's passenger-side window. “Hey, young brother,” he said, grinning big, every other tooth missing. “Can you loan me ten dollars?”
Lefty smiled. “I don't have ten dollars.”
The old man's expression instantly changed to one of anger. “You mean to tell me you're driving a goddamn Cadillac and you don't have ten dollars? Bullshit!”
Lefty flipped the switch, rolling the window up. The old man screamed, “Fuck you, man! Fuck you in your goddamn face!” He was flipping Lefty off, putting his finger against the window.
The light changed and Lefty drove away, leaving the old man standing there to wait for the rapture alone.
When Lefty pulled into the parking lot of the motel, he didn't have a care in the world. He just wanted to go in and take a shower and relax. But when he looked at the outside of Brooks' room, he knew that wasn't an option.
There were two men, both tough-looking SOBs, leading Brooks, Dixie, and Layla into an old beat up black van of the “I've got candy” pedo variety. But these weren't pedophiles; these were second-rate goombas, obviously Bruno De Lorenzo's goons. Lefty couldn't see their guns, but he knew they were there. There was no way Brooks or Dixie would allow themselves to be herded into that van without a fear of being killed. Lefty was certain there would be a third man man inside the van, to sit behind the captives and keep them under control.
He looked at Layla climbing into the van. She looked scared, and that frightened Lefty. But not just fear; he was angry now. Really fucking pissed. No one fucked with his Layla and lived to see another day. That was one of Lefty's hard-fast rules, like not eating after eight p.m. and never watching a movie starring Adam Sandler. Lefty didn't wanna be seen, so he pulled around through the parking lot, past the black van, trying to look nonchalant like he didn't notice . He drove through the lot, parking down near the front office. He was just far enough away he could park without drawing suspicion, but still close enough he could watch the van. Of course he was now on the other side of it, so he could no longer see the captives being forced inside.
A few minutes later, one of the goombas came around the van and into view, climbing into the driver's side. The van backed out of its parking spot, turning in Lefty's direction. They didn't pay him any mind sitting there, and they passed by him, exiting onto the busy street. Lefty pulled out and followed them. This was the most car chasing Lefty had ever done. He felt like a regular Steve McQueen.
He let the black van get way up ahead so its driver would have no idea they were being followed. Realizing it was time for a change, Lefty popped out the O'Jays CD and replaced it with Curtis Mayfield. A moment later, “Little Child Runnin' Wild” came on, and the world was right again. At least as right as it could seem with his Layla up there in that pedo van with a gun in her face. But Lefty was determined to do something about that. Come hell or high water, he would save his Tator Tot. He watched as the van turned, down a busy cross street. Lefty also turned, following at a safe distance. A few minutes passed, and the van hooked a left on a nondescript side street. Lefty followed.
The neighborhood was upscale, the street lined with middling-sized, mostly white Colonial-style houses. They were big by Lefty's standards, but he knew these were far from the biggest houses in town. No, this was the rich but not filthy-rich neighborhood. Lefty glanced at some of the houses, wondering if any black people lived on this street. He doubted it. It didn't look inviting, somehow screaming “NO NIGGERS” while simultaneously being bland and low-key.
Lefty was a ways behind the van, wh
ich seemed out of place here, when it pulled into a driveway in front of one of the big white houses. The driver's door popped open, and the goon hopped out, heading around the vehicle. Lefty drove slowly, just faster than idle, but was forced to pass the driveway so he wouldn't draw attention. As he passed, he could see Goon #2 on the other side of the van opening the side door to let the captives out. Lefty drove about four houses down, pulling over on the right side of the road. He took a deep breath and turned off the ignition. He climbed out, walked around to the trunk, and popped it open. He stood over it, ejecting the half-spent clip from the Glock and letting it fall to the pavement. He reached in and retrieved a clip, putting it in the right pocket of his jacket. He grabbed a second clip, and slid it into the pistol. He closed the trunk, turning back towards the house. As he did, he saw Brooks, Dixie, and Layla being taken inside by two of the goons. The third goon was now in the van, backing out of the driveway. It turned in the opposite direction from where Lefty was, driving into the distance.
Lefty started walking towards the house, his Glock by his side. He must have been quite a sight, walking down the street of this white bread neighborhood, a bleeding black man carrying a Glock. Lefty wondered if his murderous, vengeful intent would be visible to someone seeing him objectively. Was that a thing a person could identify? Lefty believed it was, proud that if that was, he now personified that.
As he approached the house, he scanned the area, trying to decide his next move. There was no one outside. He had seen two goons enter, but he felt relatively sure there were more inside. What was this place? Obviously it was a house, but what was its purpose? Or did it have a purpose? Was this a sort of safe house where they held (and probably tortured) captives, or was this just one of their own personal houses? Lefty thought it an odd location for a torture house, it being smack dab in the middle of the city in a nice neighborhood. Lefty had never possessed a torture house, but he was pretty sure if he did it would be out in the country somewhere where no one could see or hear anything.
Lefty came to the driveway, making his way up towards the house.
Fuck it, he thought. Let's do this.
He would walk right up to the front door and knock like he was the Jehovah's Witnesses here to offer them a copy of The Watchtower. Lefty was now on the porch in front of the door. There was no need to knock as there was a doorbell. He pushed it, hearing its loud chimes inside. A moment later the door opened and a thirty-something Italian guy was there, peering out through a crack.
“Who you supposed to be?”
“candy-gram,” said Lefty.
This perplexed the guy. Before he could voice his confusion, Lefty kicked the door, sending the guy flying back. Before the man hit the floor, Lefty fired a shot center mass through his chest. He stepped into the house, over the dead man, looking ahead. There was a couch along the far wall. Dixie and Brooks were sitting there, next to a goomba smoking a cigarette. The man's cigarette started to fall from his lips, but just dangled there now. He moved forward to stand, but Lefty raised his arm and fired a second shot through his forehead.
Brooks started to climb to his feet. Lefty looked at him. “Where's Layla?”
Brooks moved his head, motioning towards an open doorway leading to the dining room. Lefty made his way into the room, scanning it thoroughly, seeing no one. He looked to the right and saw a hallway. Almost the second he looked, another goon emerged with Layla, his pistol aimed at her temple. She looked terrified. She wasn't crying yet, but was on the verge. The man was pushing her, moving her down the hall towards Lefty.
Lefty made eye contact with her. “You okay, Tator Tot?”
“Yeah,” said Layla, sniffling. “But this guy's an asshole.” She paused. “Can I say that word, Daddy?”
“Sure,” said Lefty. “It seems appropriate.”
Layla said, “He thinks 'Rocket Man' is about Elton John being gay.”
Lefty, standing there with his pistol trained on the man's face, laughed despite himself.
“What's so funny?” asked the man. “It totally is.”
“Is not,” argued Layla.
“Is too,” said the man defensively. “He says he's not the guy that people think he is. He says that he's a rocket man.” He looked up at Lefty. “You get it, right? A rocket man. When he says 'rocket' he's referring to dick. He's saying he likes dick and that he's gay.” He paused for a moment before asking, “What do you think?”
Lefty squeezed the trigger, answering the question, ensuring that “Rocket Man,” dicks, and the bullet would be the last things going through the guy's head.
The man fell to the floor and Layla came running towards Lefty. “Daddy!” she squealed. She ran to him, wrapping her arms around him, but Lefty was looking for the next man to kill.
Layla leaned back, looking at his shoulder. “What happened to your arm, Daddy? You're bleeding.”
“Daddy got a boo-boo,” he said, seeing someone through the sliding-glass doors. He stared out, seeing one of the goons running past.
“You didn't get a boo-boo,” said Layla. “You got shot.”
Lefty didn't have time for this right now. He turned towards the backdoor. He'd be damned if he was gonna let the guy get away after they'd taken Layla captive. No one got away with that shit. Not ever.
Lefty moved Layla out of his way. “I'll be right back, Tator Tot. Daddy's gotta do something.”
He moved to the door and slid it open, moving through it quickly. The guy was still running, going around the house. Lefty broke into his twelve-billionth sprint of the day. Fucking cardio, he thought. When Lefty came to the corner of the house, rounding it, the guy took a shot at him. The bullet struck the house, burying itself in its side. Lefty raised his silenced pistol and fired at the man, who broke into a run again. Lefty gave chase, taking the corner quickly. He dodged another bullet just before the dumbass disappeared back into the house through the front door.
Really? This is the fucking game we're playing?
Lefty stopped for a second, catching his breath. Then he remembered that Layla was still in the house. He made his way quickly past the front of the house and onto the porch, going through the front door. When he did, he saw another of an apparently endless supply of goons standing over the couch with a gun on Brooks and Dixie, who were sitting captive again. Before Lefty could react, he heard “drop it” from his left. He turned, now seeing another goomba fuck standing there with a .38.
Lefty dropped the Glock onto a maroon throw rug. He looked at the guy, who was smiling big. The guy said, “Come on in. You think you're pretty big shit, huh?”
Lefty feigned a grin. “Yeah, pretty big shit. That's me.”
“Well,” the man said. “You're about to be dead shit.”
Lefty looked at him, his expression changing to one of disappointment. “Really, dude?”
The man didn't understand. “What?”
“You sure that's the line you wanna go with, 'dead shit'?”
Lefty heard Brooks chuckling.
The man asked, “What do you mean?”
“That's lame as fuck.”
The guy started to say something in his defense when Brooks spoke up. “He's right. That's the worst goddamn line I ever heard in my life. I've been killing people for a lot of decades now and I can't remember anyone ever trying on a line as stupid as that.”
The goomba standing by the couch barked, “Shut your mouth, old man!”
Brooks shrugged, saying nothing.
The guy holding the gun on Lefty said, “Seriously, I'm about to kill you deader than fuck.” He repositioned his pistol. “You're about to go down for the count, nigger.”
Lefty braced himself, seeing the man's finger tighten on the trigger.
Bam! Bam! came the shots.
Two things occurred to Lefty in that millisecond: he didn't feel any pain, and the guy's expression contorted into something strange and unidentifiable. And then the guy fell to the ground, the .38 falling to the floor beside the Gl
ock. Lefty looked up and saw Layla standing in the doorway to the next room, holding a smoking pistol.
“Oh, hon,” said Dixie.
The goomba standing over her and Brooks turned towards Layla, about to take a shot at her. Before he could aim the pistol, Lefty rushed him, slamming him to the ground. As they collided with the floor, the gun went off, firing into the wall behind Dixie's head. Lefty grabbed the man's pistol hand, wrestling him for control. They writhed around on the floor. Lefty was stronger, and he could feel himself slowly making progress. The man was staring at the gun. Seeing he was distracted, Lefty slammed his forehead into the man's face, breaking his nose. The man let out a guttural sound and blood began pouring from his nostrils. The goomba was confused and disoriented. Despite his forehead hurting like hell, Lefty slammed it into the guy's face again, smashing the back of his head into the wooden floor.
“You want me to shoot him, Daddy?” asked Layla, standing over them, still holding the gun.
“No, Tator Tot,” said Lefty. “Daddy's got this.”
As the two men continued to wrestle, Brooks stood up. Lefty couldn't see what the old man was doing as he was busy wrestling. A moment later, Brooks' feet were beside their heads.
“Lean back,” said Brooks.
Lefty didn't understand.
The man on the ground looked up at Brooks, confused.
Brooks became angry. “I said lean back, goddammit!”
Lefty leaned back away from the goon. As he did, Brooks raised his foot and stomped down hard against the man's face, burying his heel in it. Lefty had a front-row seat to the man's destruction. To hammer home the point, Brooks raised his foot and stomped on the man's face again, completely crushing his skull.
