Vigilante Angels Trilogy

by Billy DeCarlo

  Molletier threw a lightning-fast kick toward Lukas’ groin, stopping just short and then snapping it back. “Best place to strike a man is there. Most sensitive place. Also, penis is root of all evil, responsible for downfall of society.” The group laughed.

  “You got that right, Sensei,” Tass shouted. “What about a woman, though?”

  “Woman is perfect. No weak spots.”

  “Damn right, sir!” she responded, as the men grumbled.

  A group of motorcycles were lined up in the parking lot as uniformly as the students who owned them. Tommy watched from a nearby park bench, wrapped in blankets despite the warm morning. He wouldn’t have missed it, despite the opportunity to be home in bed. He put his feet up on the cooler of ice and water bottles that they had kiddingly charged him with guarding, and took in the scene.

  It brought him back to the many evenings he’d supervised his son’s taekwondo lessons through a glass partition in Molletier’s school. The same instructions were issued in the same authoritative voice, although it was somewhat less powerful these days. It’s hitting him too, the damage from this disease and from the treatment. He’s where I was last year, still strong but fading.

  This time, the dojo was open-air rather than in the humid, sweat-soaked studio. The students all wore black vests which read ‘Black Eagles Motorcycle Club.’ Molletier ran them through a series of blocks, punches, and kicks, their shouts and grunts filling the air in unison. Wish I could go back. Let the kid off the hook. I just wanted him to be tougher, ready for this cruel world.

  He let the memories pass, returning himself to the present. He looked around at the brilliant colors of the natural setting: the blue sky dotted with white clouds, trees and grass in beautiful shades of green, multicolored flowers in the gardens area nearby. He took in a deep breath of fresh air and listened beyond the sounds of the lesson to focus on the birds calling to each other from the surrounding trees. It really is a beautiful planet.

  He watched as a woman exited a car with a fast food bag in her hand and approached the nearby concrete block restrooms. As she passed near a trash can, she launched the bag. It bounced off the rim and fell to the sidewalk, dumping its contents. The woman paused to look at it and then walked into the ladies’ room. We’re the only stain on this world. I wonder how we got here. Somehow, we don’t fit in with everything else. He struggled to remove the blankets and rose to take care of the trash.

  Molletier spilled out a box full of pads and instructed the group to don them and pair off to spar. Tommy watched as they attacked each other with vigor, taunting one another playfully but striking serious blows. The slaps of the gear, along with grunts and laughs, came continuously.

  Lukas was sparring with Tass, and she appeared to be getting the better of him, using her shorter stature to strike his thighs with repeated kicks from close range, taking away his reach advantage. He was clearly still tender from the rough ride, and his mobility was limited.

  “Bring it, girl, bring it oooon!” Lukas called to her. He went into a mock Mohammad Ali shuffle and tapped her on the top of the head, angering her.

  “Let’s be serious, people,” Molletier called sternly. “Taekwondo is serious business!”

  Tass lunged in and drove several punches toward Lukas’ midsection, pulling up short to avoid hurting him. He grabbed her in a bear-hug, wrestling her to the ground and kissing her. She wrapped her legs around him and kissed him back. “Easy girl, I’m still all busted up,” he said.

  Molletier looked over to Tommy, shaking his head. Tommy thought he detected a rare smile on the man’s face. More chills ran through Tommy’s body, and he started to feel dizzy and nauseous. He began to fear another seizure; he’d been worried about it since being back in the park. He hoped they’d wrap it up soon so he could get home and warm up.

  Tommy closed his eyes and thought of ways to spend quality time with Bobby. He likes drawing and painting. Maybe I could take it up myself. I might have some hidden talent there. He envisioned himself in the same park, standing at an easel, dabbing away at a canvas, with a beret on his head, capturing the landscape. The picture made him laugh, which set off a coughing attack.

  “You okay there, Pops?” Lukas asked. The Eagles had finished their lesson and were standing by politely waiting for him to take his feet off the cooler. He did so, and they dove in eagerly.

  “You guys are wearing me out just watching you,” he answered.

  Molletier walked up with the cardboard box of gear. “Good progress, students. Much more work needed. Taekwondo requires much time, much discipline, much practice.”

  “Thank you, Sensei,” Tass said to him, bowing. The others followed suit, and Molletier appeared pleased. “Each Saturday and Sunday morning, we will meet here for practice. Students are committed?” he asked. The group agreed with enthusiasm.

  They rested for a while, taking in the serene environment. “There you go, Tommy. You’ve got your own ninja army,” Lukas said.

  Tommy liked the thought. “Imagine, we could really start to clean up some of the bad neighborhoods. Except for all these punks carrying guns now,” he added wistfully.

  “Here comes trouble,” Tass said, looking over toward the parking lot. A dark sedan had pulled up next to the motorcycles. Carson and Jackson emerged and began looking over the bikes, pointing things out to one another. Jackson had a ticket book and pen in his hand and began to write.

  “Got to be a special place in hell for people that miserable,” Tommy said.

  The two cops strode confidently over to the silent group. “Who’s got the Suzuki?” Carson asked, smiling.

  “That’s me,” Tass responded.

  “Registration sticker’s out of date. Here you go.” He tore a ticket from the booklet that Jackson handed him and offered it to her.

  She grabbed it from his hand. “I got the new sticker at home, didn’t put it on the bike yet. Can’t you cut me a break on that?”

  “Tell it to the judge, sister,” Carson laughed.

  “I’m not your damn sister, buddy,” she said, rising from the picnic bench she sat on. The others rose up as well.

  “Easy, Tass,” Lukas said. “We’ll take care of this in court. You done here, officers?”

  “‘Detectives’ to you, Taylor,” Carson sneered at him.

  Jackson had been looking at the box of pads. He bent over and poked around in it. “What’s this, kung-fu class? You people running some kind of illegal business here on public grounds? Who’s in charge of this mess?”

  Molletier came around from the back of the group and picked the box up, placing it out of reach on the picnic table. “I am in charge. This is free public group exercise in the park. No money. No business transaction.”

  Carson looked at Jackson. “Jackson, get a load of Bruce Lee over here—eye patch, topknot and all. Halloween’s a few days out, and this joker has his costume on already.” The cops both laughed.

  “Fuck you, Carson,” Tommy said in a weak voice. Carson walked around them to see who’d addressed him.

  “Well, well. If it ain’t Tommy Borata. Or is it the former Tommy Borata? Damn, tough guy, you’re looking pretty sorry, all shriveled up like an old man in those blankets. You’re wasting away fast, pal. Hang on at least until I can put you away, alright?”

  Lukas moved directly in front of Carson until they were nose-to-nose. “Back off. If your business is done here, leave us alone.”

  Carson put a finger on Lukas’ chest. “Another tough guy. You want another ride, Taylor? I’ll really try to check the seat belt this time, promise. Sort of.” He laughed again.

  “Please leave us. Now,” Molletier said firmly. He pulled Lukas back with one arm, stepping into his place in front of Carson.

  Carson reddened, the smile disappearing from his face. “Listen, you gook...” he started, grabbing the front of Molletier’s dobok top.

  In an instant, Molletier moved like a precision machine, breaking Carson’s hold and stepping back, t
hrowing a kick into Carson’s chest, knocking him backward and to the ground.

  “You motherfucking chink bastard,” Carson raged, getting up to charge. Jackson grabbed him and held him back.

  “We can’t, Carson. No cause. It’ll turn out bad. Too many people around. Let it go, for now.”

  Carson shook him off, seething. “Alright, alright. You assholes will be hearing a lot more from me, and soon. Keep your head up, all of you. Especially you, Borata. I’m coming for you. And you, Charlie Chan. You better hope your papers are in order.”

  “Molletier,” the sensei responded. “Sensei Molletier.”

  The two cops spun and headed back to their car, as the Eagles offered quiet high-fives and back slaps to each other and Molletier.

  Tommy smiled from his bench. “Let’s get the hell out of here, gang, while the gettin’s good. Lunch is on me.”

  12 Cowboy Carson

  Carson pushed his mug toward the bartender for a refill. The twang of old country music filled the tavern, and the patrons at the tables and barstools seemed content in their environment. The walls were lined with the skeletal heads and horns of large animals, and a massive Confederate flag was pinned to the ceiling at all four corners. Below the flag, large timber beams spanned from wall to wall, and brassieres hung where they’d been tossed over the years by inebriated customers.

  “We’re not going to get anything outta that Lukas Taylor dude,” he said. “He’s pretty defiant. Those fuckers stick together pretty tight.” He looked at himself in the bar-back mirror and felt that he looked just right in the setting. He lowered the brim of his Stetson and unbuttoned his top shirt button to expose more chest.

  Jackson drained his mug and placed it next to Carson’s. “Agreed. I think he’d give Borata up though, if he wasn’t so closely tied to his Uncle Moses. What’re you going to do about the charges on Taylor?”

  “I didn’t write him up. Nobody else knew about the plant except you and me, so that part was easy. I told the chief that we worked it out.”

  “Thank God for that. I wasn’t looking forward to the paperwork. How do you know Taylor’s not gonna push back? Borata had him lawyer up—he might see a big payday coming if they decide to sue.”

  “Nah,” Carson said. “Taylor’s too principled. I apologized to him man-to-man. He seemed to appreciate that, and I told him I’d make sure we’d stay out of his group’s way.

  “I’m thinking about leaning on Borata’s kid instead. It’s more fun, anyway. I have a suspicion about him. I think he’s a fag, and I got a tip about a place he might be hanging out.”

  He looked over at the redhead two stools down, who was now sitting alone.

  “Hey there, sweetie. My name is Carson. Where’d your old man go?”

  She looked over to him drowsily, drained the shot in front of her, and then the one from the place where the man had been sitting. “He’s in the shitter. What’s it to ya?”

  “Damn, little lady. You have a good buzz going on for this early on a Sunday. I guess I’d have to get loaded too if I was with a loser like that dude. Why don’t you give me your number?”

  “Fuck off, mister.” She returned her gaze to the bar and reached for the half-mug of beer in front of her.

  Jackson laughed. “Oh man, Carson. That’s rich. She told you. It’s not often I see you get shot down like that.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Jackson.” Carson returned to the image of himself in the mirror.

  The man came back and ordered refills for himself and the woman.

  “Paul,” the woman said to him. “That man there wants my number. Says his name is Carson.”

  “Uh-oh, here we go,” Jackson said under his breath.

  The man turned to Carson, who remained facing forward. They were inches from each other on the adjacent barstools. “Buddy, you been asking my wife for her number?”

  Carson remained silent and still. He imagined himself, as he always did in these situations, as a gunfighter in an Old West saloon, or at least the version he’d seen in countless Western movies.

  “He got no respect for you, Paul. Not for you, or me,” the woman added.

  Paul raised his voice. “I mean, clearly she’s wearing a wedding ring. You had to see it. Don’t you check at least, before hitting on a woman?”

  “Let’s go,” Jackson said to Carson. Carson didn’t budge.

  “The nerve, right, Paul?” the redhead continued.

  Paul looked across the bar to the image of Carson looking at himself in the mirror. He waited for a response, and then pushed lightly on Carson’s shoulder. “Excuse me...” was all he managed to get out.

  Carson grabbed the man’s wrist before he could withdraw it, then swept from his barstool and forced the man to the floor in a single motion. He spun, flipped his adversary over, and yanked the man’s arm between both legs into an arm-bar. “Yee-ha,” he yelled.

  Paul screamed in agony, and the drunk woman worked to get off her stool. Jackson got up and rushed to keep her from jumping onto Carson’s back.

  The bartender hustled down from the other end of the bar. “Knock it off, dammit. Carson, let him go. Not in my damn bar, please. I’ve asked you before.”

  Carson relaxed and got up, laughing. Jackson retrieved his hat from the floor and handed it back to him. The man got up, flexing his arm, and took a step toward Carson. “What the fuck was that, asshole? How about a fair fight, man to man?”

  “Take it outside,” the bartender warned again. “Out of my bar with that bullshit.”

  “Let’s go then, tough guy,” Carson said. “It’s what I live for.”

  Jackson pulled his wallet and showed his badge behind Carson’s back. Paul noticed it, and immediately changed his demeanor. “C’mon,” he said to his wife. “Give me your keys. I’ll drive, I should be okay. You’re hammered.”

  She fumbled in her purse as they made their way to the door. “You’re an asshole,” she said to Carson. “Fake-ass concrete cowboy in some city bar, think you’re somethin’ you’re not. Asshole, that’s what you are.”

  They left, and Carson moved to the window to watch. After they entered their vehicle, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed.

  “Yeah, it’s Carson. You out on patrol today? Good. Listen, I’m in Shooters over here on Fifteen. Some guy just went out to his car shit-faced and got behind the wheel. Wouldn’t listen to me. Try to get over here and pick him up for DUI before he gets too far down the road. He’s with his old lady; she’s a smart-ass, too. Don’t take any shit from her, she’s loaded. You might have to take them both in. Green Chevy Impala.”

  He snapped his phone closed. “Some people never learn,” he said, smiling at the bartender and Jackson. “You mess with the bull, you get the horns.” Both shook their head at him in disgust.

  13 Purse Snatchers

  “You got any family, Sensei?” Tommy asked as they drove through the city streets.

  “Mother and father both died in Korea. Wife left,” he answered in his solemn tone. “She went back to Korea. Daughter moved west, to LA, and died from drugs.” He paused at that and was silent for a time. “It’s just me now,” he finally added. “Alone.”

  “How’s your treatment coming along? Anything new?”

  “Still clear for now, but I feel a change coming. The treatments only make me sicker, weaker. Korean medicine, old natural herbal medicine, is better. Maybe I need to stop the modern treatments, and use only Korean medicine.”

  “You might have something there, buddy,” Tommy said. “Where can I get some of that? Can’t hurt, right?”

  They took a detour to the Korean section of the city, and Molletier brought him to a small shop. The female proprietor seemed to Tommy to be incredibly old. Ancient. Wise. Molletier spoke to her in their native language while Tommy browsed the shelves. The place itself felt timeless and exotic. It smelled of things he’d never experienced—of mysteries older than the planet itself.

  They called him over, and she led him to a b
ack room, indicating that he should lie down on a massage-type table. “Hey, wait a minute...” he said to Molletier.

  “Do not insult her with that,” he responded before Tommy could finish. “Foolish American, mind always in the gutter.”

  “No, I mean, we’re not going to do any of that acupuncture stuff, are we? I don’t like needles.”

  “Just examination,” Molletier said.

  Tommy complied. The woman stood over him, looking deeply into his eyes, examining his mouth and tongue with a flat wooden tool. She moved her hands over his body, pressing gently in different places, focusing on the areas where his organs were, prodding through his clothing. She removed his shoes and socks and spent a long time working his ankles and feet.

  She completed her work and motioned for him to get down. After a short conference with Molletier, he said, “She says you’re a very sick man,” and then laughed, exposing his sarcasm.

  “Oh, thanks a lot. I could’ve looked in the mirror to figure that out,” Tommy said.

  The proprietress was moving among her shelves, selecting items and packaging them up. She brought a small bag to the register and rang it up. “Seventeen dollar,” she said.

  “Oh, she speaks English now, at the cash register, right?” Tommy said, opening his wallet and extracting a credit card.

  “She only speaks English money. To run the store,” Molletier said. “Cash only.”

  As they continued the drive, Molletier said, “One teaspoon of powder in your tea, morning and night. Take the pill morning, noon, and night.”

  “I don’t drink tea, I drink coffee.”

  “Not any more. Only tea; green tea. Add the powder.”

  Oh brother. They reached their destination, and Tommy pulled the car over. “You got the plan down, Sensei?” he asked. They peered down the street through the windshield. It was dusk and the few streetlights that were working provided just enough light to see their destination.