Killer of Killers

by Mark M. DeRobertis

  Jiro shook his head. “This is our chance to really count for something, to make a difference in the world. You said that’s what you wanted. If you didn’t really mean it...”

  “Hold on, Jiro. It’s just that you can’t trust these guys. Who knows what they really do out there. We mean nothing to them. At least we know we can trust Shoji. We owe him everything we know, everything we’ve learned.”

  “You said you wanted to be somebody. Did you mean it or not?”

  Trent sobered. “Yes, I meant it.”

  Jiro faced the main gate of the dojo, as if his fate lay beyond it. “So did I, Tora.” Then he turned to Trent again.“So did I.”

  * * * *

  The high-rise apartment building reflected the glare of the afternoon sun. A block away, and inside his parked yellow cab, Armin Gul turned around to escape the blinding rays. In the back seat, his two hefty cousins—Ali and Jamir—were stroking sharp silver blades with white silk handkerchiefs. Up and down they polished their steel.

  Ali looked up and snarled, “I told you to keep your eyes on the building.” He put his blade against Armin’s neck. “But if you prefer to watch my knife, tell me, and I will use it to slit your throat.”

  Armin opted to watch the building. A charming rose garden bloomed astride the entrance to its lobby. He raised his hand to shield his eyes from the blinding rays and hoped the wait would not be long.

  * * * *

  The rush-hour traffic packed the roads with large trucks, small sedans, and a steady stream of yellow cabs. Trent was one of countless pedestrians who matched their motorized counterparts in a variety of shapes, sizes, and impatient headway. Seemingly oblivious to each other, most were heavy-gaited and looked straight ahead or down at their feet. Many strolled along reading newspapers, talking on cell phones, or listening to their iPods.

  Though he was part of the horde, Trent entertained a separate thought. He had an appointment with Shalom DaBomb, and it was for reasons other than adulation. Right about now, the rapper should be in the middle of his performance in Central Park. Trent didn’t plan on making that part of the event. He decided to wait at the Manhattan Central Mall.

  When he sighted his destination, Trent observed the mall’s custodial staff preparing a first class reception. He didn’t doubt it was for Shalom, nor did he doubt Shalom had made it a required part of his agreement to appear. It was truly amazing how these celebrities believed themselves so high and mighty, even superior to the masses whose pockets they picked.

  Latino workers rolled out crimson carpets, set up golden posts, and connected padded ropes to cordon off spectators. They set up a long table, covered it with a burgundy tablecloth, and added a half dozen, soft-cushioned folding chairs. Attendants supplied boxes filled with books to be signed by the murderer and sold for what Trent considered tainted dividends.

  Uniformed policemen, stationed at both ends of the steps, stood guard for the arriving performer. Trent filled with scorn. Here was the law protecting the criminal. It was an example of the backward state of affairs to which his country had rotted. With his hands in his pockets, he wandered to the far corner of the block. From there, he would observe the crowd’s erratic anticipation.

  Within the hour, a chorus of cheers erupted as a white limousine parted from the main boulevard and traveled the mall’s incoming roadway. The cheering spiked when it parked in the valet recess. Next, a chauffeur wearing a fancy blue uniform, complete with coat tails and an eight-point hat, popped out to open the door for his notorious passenger.

  Without giving the driver so much as a glance, Shalom emerged, waving to the whooping mob. Girls screamed and boys hollered for the man, as they might for a national hero. Trent was appalled. Real heroes rescued families from burning buildings, or saved people from murderers and rapists. True heroes risked their lives in foreign lands to keep Americans safe. Yet these fools treated Shalom like a hero, and worse, for his repeated defilement of the genuine article. A despicable person like this, put on a pedestal for his crime, was a bad joke. Like all bad jokes, it wasn’t funny. Trent was going to make sure this man’s run of poor taste ended today.

  Outside the limo, Shalom stood about six feet, three, and wore a bright orange, loose-fitting jacket over a white-ribbed muscle shirt. Bedecked in bling, he glistened with every move. Even his teeth were lined in gold, and he flashed a broad smile to show them off.

  A huge black man stepped out next. He was dressed in a red, short-sleeved shirt, buttoned down the front, untucked over dark slacks. Another husky black man, like-wise attired, followed him, and then a third followed the second. Finally, two pretty black girls in lime-green miniskirts took their places on either side of Shalom.

  Trent noted one point of special interest. The chauffeur was an average-sized white man with brown hair and a goatee, much like his own. Once Shalom and his entourage found their seats, the chauffeur re-entered his limousine, cruised around the corner, and pulled into the mall’s underground garage. At a casual pace, Trent followed the vehicle through the same entrance. Easily slipping by the attendant, he moseyed down the paved tunnel, which led to a vast subterranean parking lot. Apparently, it accommodated the business owners and visiting personalities like Shalom.

  The lower level was devoid of sun, and less than adequate lighting kept it dark. Cars were parked sporadically, but a reserved section on the far end was near empty. It was there the chauffeur parked the limo next to an enclosed staircase. At the moment, he leaned against his vehicle, smoking a cigarette. While a silent Trent moved toward him from the opposite direction, a deep voice sounded through a cell phone in the man’s coat. “Yo, Bruce!”

  The driver pulled out his phone and answered, “Yo!”

  “Be ready. Shalom’s gettin’ bored over here. He wants out.”

  Straightening his stance, the man named Bruce replied, “You got it,” and tossed what was left of his cigarette.

  Trent slithered around the limo’s rear, closed the distance with a noiseless bound, and dug his fingers into the auricular nerves astride the man’s neck. He stiffened with a shiver and dropped.

  Trent broke his fall by holding him under the armpits. He removed the oversized coat and tried it on. After deciding it fit well enough, he snatched the hat and fixed it over his head. It was snug, but Trent had his disguise. He eyed the uniform pants and knee-high boots. Trent had no inclination to remove the man’s pants, but decided to go with the boots. They fit like a glove. He considered, then, the man’s gloves and took them, also. Trent examined his reflection in the limousine’s window. He firmed his mouth and nodded.

  The cell phone ended Trent’s self-inspection. “Yo, Bruce!”

  Trent figured to mimic the chauffeur’s voice. “Yo!”

  “Let’s go, dawg. You comin’?”

  “Um, you got it.”

  Trent dragged the unconscious man into the stairwell and sat him up in a corner. “You sit this one out, eh, Bruce?” He left him there to do just that.

  When the disguised Trent entered the stretched vehicle, he found a single door serviced the passenger compartment afore the rear axle. A couch spanned the length of the opposite side, curled behind the driver’s seat, and also around the back end. Folding tables propped bottles of liquor in recessed circles and white powder in short glass jars. Mirrors and butt-ridden ashtrays protruded from slots in the segmented wall.

  More pertinent to Trent were the side windows. They were so heavily tinted it was impossible to see through them. A hand cupped to the glass made nothing of the light-deprived garage. Only the front and rear windshields retained translucence, made less so by the limo’s interior lights. Trent reached to power them off but decided against it. For what he had in mind, it was better they stayed on.

  * * * *

  Directed by traffic cops, Trent pulled Shalom’s limousine to the carpeted curb. He adjusted his hat and jumped out to open the rear door. The women and bodyguards entered without giving him a glance. Shalom posed for final
photos and also ventured in. “Let’s go, Bruce,” he barked.

  Trent started up the engine and cleared the waving fans. When the limo passed the cop-guarded barricades, Shalom’s people started drinking the booze and opened the jars of the white-powdered drug. With discreet peeks in the rear view mirror, Trent witnessed the illicit consumption. The bodyguards drank whiskey straight from the bottles. The women took turns snorting the white powder drawn in lines on mirrors. Shalom ingested both.

  Trent noted the tinted windows offered a better view in the daylight, so he decided to make the dim garage his destination after a brief trek through the city. But as he made the second block, the squalid stink of skunkweed assailed his nose. He was disgusted and felt violated breathing the smoke second hand. The restricted space in the limo was worse than the Global Room and the backstage party combined. Trent decided to cut the journey short. He doubled back and re-entered the subterranean lot. The attendant didn’t question the limo’s return, and none of the passengers realized they were back at the Manhattan Central Mall.

  Shalom, however, took note of the lessened speed. He looked to the windows but couldn’t see beyond the black. “Yo, Bruce, we here already?”

  Trent replied, “You got it,” and parked in the same spot as did the driver before. He jumped out, peeled the heavy coat from his shoulders, and tossed it across the back window. Then he stood next to the rear passenger door and swung it wide.

  A wary Shalom directed one of his bodyguards to exit first. A husky man in red exposed his face and asked, “Whatchu doin’, Bruce?”

  Trent answered by landing a power roundhouse between the man’s eyes. Knocked unconscious, he flopped backward, sprawled with his head on the lap of Shalom. Trent slammed the door to remain unobserved.

  * * * *

  Inside the limousine, Shalom and his inebriated bodyguards widened their eyes and opened their mouths in shock. Then Shalom studied the man on his groin. “Bruce gone crazy!” he shouted. “He done laid out Jay.” He pushed the sleeping body off his lap and tried again to look out the side windows. “Damn, can’t see shit out there.” He turned to the window in the limo’s rear but saw only the coat spread end to end. Turning to his second bodyguard, he snarled, “Moose, you get out there and see what’s goin’ on.”

  Moose pulled a handgun from under his shirt. He opened the door and advanced the weapon. A black-gloved fist knocked the gun loose with a bone-crushing blow to Moose’s forearm.

  “Aaarrhhgg!” Moose screamed as he grabbed his wrist. He lowered his head to grimace in pain, after which a downward elbow strike pummeled him senseless. His falling body bounced the door wide, and the door’s recoil slammed it shut once again.

  Shalom pulled out his own handgun and yelled to his third bodyguard, “Bulldog, let him have it!”

  Bulldog also drew a gun, and they started shooting at the windows, but the bullets ricocheted throughout the interior. Slugs thudded the padded upholstery around and between them. Nevertheless, they fired off round after round, dotting a pox across the panes. The deflecting shells struck a whiskey bottle, then a second, and a third, shattering glass and splashing liquor to the floor. Even the table struts were hit, snapping a platform into the wall, heaving crystalline shards across the compartment.

  Bulldog yelled, “The gawddamn white boy’s shootin’ back at us!” and they continued firing at every window on all sides, resulting in multiple and continuous deflections.

  The loud gunshots, along with the shattering bottles, caused the women to scream at the top of their lungs and scamper about. They lowered their heads and raised their hands, trying to avoid being hit. The containers of powdered narcotic exploded into a white dust storm, which adhered to everything it touched, including the clothing, hair, and faces of everyone inside.

  The shooting stopped, but the women’s screams were not abated, and the excited Shalom bellowed, “Shut up! Shut the fuck up!”

  It was useless. The women couldn’t help themselves, and their incessant screaming made it impossible for Shalom to think. His head ached, and his mind burned. The bleached image of the screaming women became distorted. Their eyes and mouths opened wide, and their nostrils flared, which, added to their non-stop shrieking, was more than he could bear.

  Shalom yelled as loud as he could, “I said shut the fuck up!” but he was no match for the alarming volume of the frightened females. His head seared from their sonic assault. It had to stop. He raised his pistol and fired point blank into both women. Blood erupted from the impacts on their chests, and both of them slumped to the side.

  An unnatural silence followed, and Shalom stared at the faces of the dying women. He witnessed, as if in slow motion, their eyelids close, and heard, as if amplified, their last gasps accompany the final beats of their fading hearts. “I just killed the bitches!” he cried in disbelief.

  Bulldog’s eyes turned feral. “Who gives a shit about the bitches?” he boomed. “That muthafuckin’ Bruce! What the fuck’s the matter with him?”

  Shalom knew he had to think and figure a way out of the jam. “Look, man, I forgot the windows are bulletproof. We almost killed ourselves in here.”

  Shalom and Bulldog examined the devastation their shooting created. Bullet holes riddled the upholstery. Shattered glass and white dust had settled throughout. Slush formed on the carpet, a blending of whiskey and cocaine, fouling the air with the pungent odors of alcohol and iodine.

  Realizing what just happened, they looked at each other’s whitened faces and burst into fits of hysterical laughter. Shalom slapped his knee and Bulldog held his gut. The more they tried to restrain themselves, the louder their howls became. When he calmed enough to speak again, Shalom crowed to his dust-covered partner, “Look at you, dawg. You white as a hooded cracker.”

  They blasted into screaming laughter a second time. “Well, fuck that,” Bulldog responded. “You white as Jasper.”

  Shalom deadpanned his bodyguard. “Who the fuck’s Jasper?” he asked.

  “He’s that friendly ghost, dawg.”

  “It’s Casper, you damn fool.”

  They burst again into a fit of hysterics.

  After several minutes, their merriment simmered. Shalom and Bulldog traded stares while catching their breaths, and turned their heads to the women. Blood still oozed from the wounds in their chests. “Look at dem useless hos,” the uncaring Shalom said. “They as dead as the two bitches I wasted way back when. And you know what?”

  Bulldog shrugged. “What?”

  “They uglier, too.”

  Again, they boomed boisterous howls.

  It was Bulldog who stopped laughing first. “You know what they look like?” he asked. “Vanessa and Takisha after I wore ’em out.”

  “Vanessa and Takisha?” Shalom repeated as he calmed down. “They only fifteen, mofo! You tellin’ me they ain’t no virgins?”

  “Not no mo’ they ain’t.”

  Still again, they hooted and howled.

  When they finally settled down, Bulldog’s expression turned serious. He asked, “What the fuck we gonna do?”

  Shalom answered, “Hell, I’ll tell you what we’re gonna do. First, we reload.” They discarded their clips, pulled out their spares, and shoved them into their handguns. “Next, we find out what Bruce’s beef is.”

  Bulldog scoffed, “Bruce’s beef? I’ll tell you what his beef is. Ya shoulda shared summa that poochie all these months. That’s what his beef is, fool.”

  Shalom and Bulldog looked at each other and again split the air with uncontrollable hilarity. They hacked and cackled with tears clearing streaks down their dust-covered cheeks.

  * * * *

  The windows of the limo were bulletproof but no longer soundproof. The leaking laughter filled the dark garage yet entered only one set of ears. Leaning his back against the limo’s rear wheel well, Trent smiled, amused that the men inside were enjoying the experience. He folded his arms and put a foot on the tire. Next to him, the prone form of the man call
ed Moose began to stir. Trent stepped forward and kicked the handgun from view. Then he employed a synchronous pinch to the nerves astride the man’s neck. Once more, Moose kissed the pavement into oblivion.

  * * * *

  Inside the limo, Shalom resolved himself to find a solution to his predicament. He viewed the unconscious body at his feet and said, “Hell, Jay, nap time’s over.” He pointed at a broken bottle of whiskey. “Gimee that.”

  Once in hand, he poured the last of the bottle’s contents over Jay’s blank face. The potent liquid found its way into Jay’s mouth and gagged him back to reality. When the coughing Jay opened his eyes, Shalom spoke. “I don’t pay you to sleep on the job, fool. You ready to come back from La La Land?”

  Jay sat up and viewed the limo’s interior shot to pieces and canvased in white. He waved his hand through the haze and flinched at the lifeless women. Shalom scowled and waited impatiently as Jay stared at the blanket of white on his own body and the mire in which he sat. “Jesus, I believe,” he proclaimed in a shaky voice. “I believe!”

  Shalom rolled his eyes and blustered, “Shut the fuck up, you stupid fool. You ain’t even dead, yet.”

  Bulldog spoke up. “Now I want to know one thing.” He wasn’t talking to anyone in particular, as he spoke while looking at the pocked windows. “I know his name’s Bruce, but he ain’t no Bruce Lee. How’d he get so gawddamn tough he can lay out Moose and Jay?”

  Shalom didn’t know, but it got him to thinking. Maybe Bruce had been filching his supply of Eternity. Or maybe he sold out to some rival. He wasn’t sure, and he needed to find out. “Yo, Bruce!” he hollered. “Yo, Bruce,” he repeated with pistol in hand. “What is it, man? What’s goin’ on?” He waited for an answer, but after several tense moments there was no response.

  Determined to solve his dilemma, Shalom tried again. “Come on, man, I mean it. What do you want? Money? Pussy? Drugs? Is that it? You want drugs? I got drugs!” Shalom was hoping that was it. “I got the drugs you want, Bruce. I got ’em, and I know it’s what you want. You can have ’em, dawg. For real, you can have ’em. But you gotta let us outa here. No more fighting, okay? Answer me, man. Answer me!”