Hell Chose Me

by Angel Luis Colón

  “What did you say?” I ask.

  “I said I would take the job. Then I went off to scoop you up.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re fucking friends and he’s fucking nuts. I owe you more than I ever owed him.”

  He still sees us as friends—partners—as if no time had passed. I’ve got to hand it to Danny; he didn’t let this awful business wear him all the way down. “It’s that simple? You said you had a beef with him that was a sidebar to this mess.”

  “That I do, brother.”

  “And it’s still not my business?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Fine, so it wouldn’t surprise you to hear he may have had a hand in my grandfather’s death?”

  “It’s cold-blooded, but no, I wouldn’t put that past Sean. The man wants what he wants, even if his brain is half rotted.” Danny arches a brow. “Did he tell you he had something to do with it?”

  “He didn’t outright say it. But it felt close to an admission. Not sure if it was a means to psych me out.” I crack my knuckles.

  Danny lights another cigarette. Leans back and spreads his arms wide on the love seat. “So what’s this all about then?”

  I let out a long sigh. Look up to Danny. “I’m not sure I want him dead. I want him punished, I know that much…just, his fucking nightmare would be losing everything. Taking his life doesn’t feel like enough.”

  “So this is where the ‘no killing’ thing came from?”

  “A little.”

  “We don’t get the luxury of becoming heroes, Bryan.” Danny rubs his hands together. Alternates cracking his knuckles.

  “That’s not what I want. I know I can never do that. Besides, look at this. You’re doing me a solid I don’t deserve. Is that any stranger than my sudden compulsion not to be a murderer?”

  Danny mulls that over. “I suppose not. I always liked you, though. It’s hard to see you like this.” He shakes his head. “Forget sentiment. Your newfound pacifism aside, you still need to be able to protect yourself.” He stands and heads over to the bedroom. “Come along, then.”

  I follow. In the bedroom, Danny slips a knife from his pocket and squats. He slides the blade between two pieces of floorboard and lifts a section up. Beneath is dirty subfloor with a metal handle. He takes a hold of the handle and lifts, more of the floorboards near it lifting with it. Beneath that layer is a wooden staircase.

  “What is this?”

  Danny grins. “Impressive, right? Not as expensive as you’d think.” He jogs down the stairs. “Get your ass down here, Mutters.” His voice echoes below.

  Downstairs is a basement. Nothing on the walls, no furnishing. A row of track lighting above, an old wall unit, and a low hum are all that greets me. “Nice…empty space.”

  “Fuck off.” Danny grabs the high edge of the wall unit and pulls against it to reveal another room. This one’s filled with enough guns and ammo to start a small civil war. On one wall alone, I spot multiple Heckler and Koch P7s, Valmet M82As, and swear to God, a hand-crank Gatling gun in the far-left corner. Takes a miracle to keep my jaw from dropping. Why would any man need all of this?

  Danny pulls a long yellow object with two metal prongs at one end and a fat handle. “Cattle prod.” He hands it to me. Then he grabs a Remington 12-gauge and holds it out.

  I step away from him and the gun. “I told you—”

  “It’s outfitted for bean bag ammo.” He pulls a few boxes of ammo out of a drawer. “You got close and long range covered.” Danny speaks to himself in whispers. Hops across the room and digs into another closet. “Here.” He hands me a seven-inch hunting knife. “In case.” He points behind me. I turn and there are a few vests hung up in a row. “Kevlar. Take one that fits.”

  I notice near the vests is a collection of ornate blades. They all resemble what Ayah used at the Kozy, but each edge is shaped differently. Some are serrated, and others look to be fine enough to filet a salmon—an even dozen in all. “Christ, Ayah’s got a stockpile, huh?”

  “She gets them custom made by some nut job she knows on the internet.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “You comfy with all the gear? No need for a once-over on use, right?”

  “I’ve been stabbing and shooting idiots all my adult life.” I place my equipment on a table to my left. “Where did you get all this? Why do I feel as if you’re prepping for the apocalypse?”

  “Some are trophies, others I picked up over time. I try to keep everything I get my hands on.” I see him eye the Gatling gun like a prize poodle.

  “What if you get caught?”

  “Motherfucker, I set up a Bond-level vault. They find this stockpile, I deserve the time I’d do.” He motions behind us. “Besides, you know I have all this shit wired to blow forty different ways.”

  Footsteps sound behind us. Ayah and Ian walk into the armory. I wave to them. Do my best to ignore I’m probably standing inside a bomb.

  “What’s the plan afterwards? We have a meet-up?” Ian runs a hand over one of Ayah’s blades.

  Ayah smacks Ian’s hand like a mother scolding a child.

  I look to Danny. “Figure we meet back here? Potentially elsewhere if shit really hits the fan? We’ll be near enough to help out.”

  Danny pulls a small cardboard box from beneath the table I’ve planted my gear on. “Burners. Text-only. We keep in touch this way when we separate.” He hands us each a phone. “Keep it short and simple. Use the next letter of the alphabet after the first letter of your name as a signature. Any one of you gets snagged, well, good luck with that.”

  “Makes sense.” I turn the phone on the numbers are already preprogrammed. I lock the phone and slip it into my pocket. “So last bit of info. Where’s Paulie holed up?”

  “You ever hear of the Riis Houses?” Ian asks.

  I nod to him. “Yeah, it’s on Avenue D. Once upon a time, those were my stomping grounds.” I inspect the cattle prod. Seems vicious. Can’t imagine Danny bought this thing. Scares me to think how he got his hands on one.

  I shake off the bad thoughts and get the rest of the gear Danny gave me together and into a canvas rucksack on the table nearest to me.

  Ayah slips on her leather blade strap and chooses a particularly angry-looking piece to attach to it. It’s got three separate blades with serrated edges. When she sheathes it, the edges fold over one another. “Bryan and I go in the Jeep. We’ll text you when we’re there.”

  “Things go to hell, we’re all on our own.” Danny loads a Beretta. “We clear?”

  “Crystal,” I answer. Take my gear and get upstairs and outside. I load the shotgun and cattle prod into the Jeep. Wear the vest over my button down. Put my jacket over it. It’s uncomfortable, but hey; safety. The knife’s got a little clip, so I slip it over my belt. I get into the driver’s seat of the Jeep and light a cigarette. My hands start to tremble, and I will myself to calm down.

  “…coward…” Liam’s in the passenger seat. He looks near alive, his wounds bleeding as if we’d finished our scrap in Mom’s kitchen moments ago. I’m a little surprised at how much of the damage I remember, though, maybe it’s exaggerated in my memory. Maybe this is another way for me to beat myself up about the terrible crap I’ve done. There’s darkness behind him—oppressive—the sound of gnats pierces the space between my ears.

  “I can do this,” I tell him. “I can make right. Just like you said, kid. Then maybe we can put this all behind us.” I don’t say what I want to say. I don’t tell him that maybe this can make him forgive me. Hell, after I do what I intend to, maybe I can forgive myself. I don’t think I’ve ever done that before.

  I close my eyes and breathe. I think of Al Busayyah, of the dirty alleyways and the broken-down homes. I think of my tent and the camel spiders that invaded my boots every night. I can smell the aftermath of those flash grenades and the charred flesh on that boy’s hands and face. Then it’s the smell of floor cleaner in
an Irish pub and that strange smell of ozone after setting off a charge in the name of Irish independence. A thousand smoke-filled bars, clubs, and homes come next. The sounds of men bartering for their lives followed by the last gasp—their lives ebbing away.

  It’s as if it all happens at once. My chest goes tight and my stomach complains and I’m not sure if I can do this. I’m not sure I’ll make it out of this in one piece—mentally. There’d be no shame in putting that shotgun in my mouth. Even with the nonlethal shells, it would do damage. That would be retribution. I’d suffer before dying like I deserve to. Danny, Ian, and Ayah, they don’t need me. Nobody does.

  “…make right…” Liam’s song.

  I open my eyes and he’s laid out over my lap. Eyes closed, stiff as concrete. This is how I remember him best. I can’t feel his weight on me and it breaks me in two.

  “You come with me. You see what I can do.” I start the car and beep the horn to the tune of “Shave and a Haircut…” I’m feeling anxious for obvious reasons.

  27

  I forgot how much I disliked the Village. That normally wasn’t the case. During my more revolutionary years—around age fourteen—I spent as much time as I could down here. I even dabbled in the Goth movement, though, that had more to do with my affinity for pale, sullen girls in black clothing.

  It’s not that it’s a bad place, as a matter of fact, that’s exactly why I don’t like it. They made it into a shell of what it was. On the drive in, I see that every old store I remember fondly is gone. A Starbucks or a Chipotle or a frozen yogurt place lords over where I remember buying great albums, T-shirts, or movies. Shit, a tattoo joint I always wanted to go to is now a chain sit-down family restaurant. None of the arty types that trolled the area are anywhere to be seen. Now it’s a collection of aimless kids—the boys with unkempt beards and the girls with huge glasses. All of them seem to be wearing scarves in the summer. There was a time I had to walk these streets with a padlock on a chain to protect myself from drunken skinheads or gang members. Now it’s all down to being worried what someone would think about my boots or where I was eating.

  It frustrates me. Fuck this place.

  Ayah must see the disgust on my face. “What’s wrong?” She cracks the knuckles of her right hand with her thumb.

  “Huh?” She pulls me away from watching a kid dressed like a bad guy in a break-dancing movie. “Nothing, I’m a little blown away by how awful it’s become down here,” I say.

  “It’s always been awful.”

  “That’s ’cause you’re younger.”

  “No grandpa stories, please.”

  “Whatever.” I struggle to find a single storefront—any place—I could get nostalgic about. Such bullshit. “Any texts? The boys set yet?” I peek over at the Riis houses. There are a few obvious undercover cars parked across the street. A handful of loiterers wandering the block seem a little too clean—like, literally clean. I’ll admit that it’s a little inspired to hole up a star witness in the projects like this. Who the hell would think to look? Most New Yorkers couldn’t tell you the names of these developments let alone where they are. It’s almost as if they have blinders that immediately block out the faces of these types of buildings.

  Ayah checks her phone. “Nothing yet.”

  I play a beat on the steering wheel. Try to concentrate on the task at hand and not the increasing rhythm of my heartbeat. My nerves are nearly fried. Doesn’t help that I’ve got more doubt that Ian and Danny will come through than I have faith. Not to say Danny is the most punctual fella in the world, but the delay is troubling. Everything about this is troubling.

  “Nervous?” Ayah rubs her left shoulder and grimaces. Can’t imagine those straps are comfortable. Not like she didn’t pack a few pistols as well. Makes the blade seem redundant. I can only assume she likes being the resident badass.

  “I’m okay.” I force a smile. “I never ran into a gunfight with the intent of everyone walking away.”

  Ayah nods. “It’s a pretty stupid idea.”

  “Thanks. That helps the self-esteem.”

  “Well, it is. You said it yourself—we can’t change what we are.”

  “I think I misspoke. We can’t change what we’ve done, Ayah, but we can sure as hell try to change what we do.”

  “What if you’re left without a choice?”

  “Then I swallow it. Do what needs to be done. As corny as it sounds, I’ve realized that I need to try. Even if it’s too late to make up for the heavy stuff.”

  “What’s right would be to run.”

  “Not when I got a target on my back.”

  “Letting Paulie get away won’t change that.”

  I wag a finger at her. “That ain’t my whole plan.”

  That gets her attention. “Then what else are you going to do?”

  I shake my head. “We get there if we need to get there. For now, we get Paulie out and along for the ride. Find out what he knows about Sean’s location; maybe even talk him into making me disappear.”

  “Pipe dreams.” She crosses her arms. “So, what do I do?”

  “Danny said Paulie’s in 454.” I point to the building across from us. “You go through the back. Take the stairs. He’s on the fourth floor, so it won’t be that bad. Whatever the boys don’t attract, you handle. The less resistance for me to get in, the better for everyone.”

  “You think there’s a huge amount of law enforcement?”

  “Probably not. Not like this is the mayor we’re dealing with here. Besides, Danny said the entourage wasn’t too big.”

  Ayah’s phone chirps. She looks down at it. “Blacky says five minutes.”

  I eye her. “Why do you call him that again?”

  She shrugs. “It was how he introduced himself.”

  “He’s forever been a complete weirdo.” I laugh. “When we first started working together, he used to dress like Elvis. Half expected him to drawl the same way. It was jarring to hear that lilt come out of him.”

  Ayah shakes her head. “When my sister and I met him, he was wearing—” she makes an oval by touching the thumb and index fingers of each hand and laying them above her navel, “—this thing, like a belt buckle made of hammered tin. He taped a picture of Elvis to it.”

  We both laugh out loud. This is as close to a real human moment I’ve had with another person in almost a decade. I check the rearview for Liam. Nothing. It hurts that I can’t laugh with him this way and it hurts that I’m upset to be connecting with a stranger I shouldn’t trust to begin with. Who am I kidding, at this point in my life I’d take anything.

  I clear my throat. “So how did you guys hook up with him?”

  She gazes down at the phone. “He pulled us out of a bad situation.” Smiles. “He’s good, deep down inside.”

  “Makes sense. Always a little batty, but a good guy.” I elbow her arm gently. “What’s the deal with Ian?”

  She shrugs. “Not sure. He used to fight in some underground boxing thing out in Coney Island from what I heard. Had a bad drug problem.”

  I was right about that. Give myself a mental pat on the back for the deduction skills. “He seems close to Danny”

  “Absolutely. He’s with Blacky until the end.”

  “Please stop calling him that.” I remind myself to ask Danny where the hell he came up with that idiot name if I make it out of this alive. There’s little doubt in my mind he up and decided to force people to call him that for the hell of it.

  Another chirp comes from Ayah’s phone. “Six minutes now.” She types a reply to them.

  Damn it. He’s making me twitchy. “He’s still dependably late.” I scratch the side of my nose. Spot a black SUV not too different than the ones that signaled trouble the last few weeks. It’s idling, but the windows are tinted black. Can’t see who’s inside. “Say, here’s a stupid question I never bothered to ask. Where did he get all this inside info?”

  “There’s a deli in the
Bronx of all places; it’s where others from your old circle go. One of the guys who runs it used to be a dirty cop.”

  I nod. “Grumos Deli, I remember the place. They had the best damn soppressata I ever had. They used to sell really good soda you couldn’t get locally either. Man, I forgot the name of the one my brother and I always drank.” I smile to myself, thinking of Liam.

  Ayah scratches her forearm under the leather strap housing her blade. “Why are you asking about Blacky’s contact?”

  “Because I think that former cop has a bigger mouth than Danny thought.” I point to the SUV. Another one pulls up behind it. A few mooks in cheap suits slip out from the second. “Yeah, he got sold out.” I knew someone was going to fuck me over somehow. It’s not Danny’s fault—exactly—but he should have known better. I should have known better.

  Ayah sends out a frantic text. She pulls her piece and looks to me. “We can’t wait.”

  “You’re right.” I turn and grab the Remington. Load my pockets with extra shells. Manage to get the cattle prod under my vest. It’s awkward, but I’ve got no place else to put it. I take a long breath. Swear I hear someone laugh. “Okay, we move now. I get the first shot.”

  “Try not to die.” She opens her door and steps out.

  I follow suit. I keep my mind about it, though. Ayah and I are in this together, but I can’t fault her if she decides I’m jamming the works and needs to shed a few pounds of old hard-ass with a pull of the trigger.

  I jog awkwardly around the back of cab and break into a sprint—the vest is keeping me stiff. I get a lock on one of the fellas with his back turned and unload a shell at his right knee. He screams and crumples to the ground. He grabs his knee and rolls over on his back, face contorted in agony. I feel a little bad for tagging him behind his back, but there ain’t much honor when you’re instigating a gun fight with the law. A soccer kick to the jaw gives him relief, for now.

  “Go, go!” I scream in the general vicinity of where I last saw Ayah. Good chance she’s not there.