Vigilante Angels Trilogy

by Billy DeCarlo

  “You see the bodega there on the right side? Those two guys standing out front are the guys we’re looking at. They’re always there. Couple of fucking bums. I’m sure they’re the ones that took Carmen’s purse.”

  “I understand the plan,” the sensei said calmly.

  “Like we discussed, go around behind the building. They’ll probably head right up that alley next to it. Be waiting for them at the end. I’ll come in from the other end, and we’ll have them trapped. I’m sick and weak, but I have my Taser to handle one of those skinny junkies if you can hold the other one. They won’t offer much resistance. Let’s just rough them up and hold them. I want to ask questions, see if I can get some of her cash back.”

  “I understand the plan,” the sensei repeated.

  “Go easy. Don’t kill anyone, for chrissakes.”

  “I understand the plan.”

  “This will work, Sensei. This ruse, the role I’m gonna play, is something I learned from my old friend Moses—good guy, the best.” He paused a moment to reflect and then thought better of letting his emotions take control of him. “Okay, Sensei. Let’s move. Go ahead.”

  Molletier exited the car and moved stealthily across the street and behind the row of buildings.

  Tommy looked in the rearview mirror to make sure he appeared properly disheveled. He loosened the tie around his neck, then opened the car door and crouched down to exit discreetly. I’ll make you proud, Moses.

  He crossed in the middle of the block, rather than using the crosswalk. Making his way down the sidewalk toward the bodega, he alternated his pace and swayed just enough to be convincing. He felt the eyes of the two men on him as he brushed past them and entered the store.

  He ordered a bottle, still in character.

  “You drunk?” the young clerk asked. “I’m not supposed to sell to drunks.”

  Tommy pulled his billfold, flashing his shield as he pulled out a twenty. The clerk rang up the purchase without commenting further.

  As he exited, he waved a liquor bottle in a brown paper bag at the men in front and said, “Happy happy hour, my brothers.” He intentionally stumbled on the steps and grabbed the railing for emphasis. Pausing before crossing the street in front of them, he feigned a struggle to place his wallet back into his back pocket. It fell to the sidewalk as he stepped off the curb and crossed the street.

  After reaching the other side, he turned to continue down the sidewalk, checking out the front of the store in his peripheral vision. As he expected, the two men were already gone.

  He crossed back over the street quickly, stepping up his pace as he neared the mouth of the alley next to the store. He was already breathing hard and exhausted, but the adrenaline and excitement from his days of doing this as a cop propelled him onward. I’m a hunter again, on the scent of the prey.

  14 Recruitment

  It was a long way to the other end of the alley, and much darker there. As his compromised body brought him closer as quickly as it could, Tommy could make out movement. He heard the sounds of grunts, yells cut short, and swishing clothing. One sound he remembered from the long past—the K'ihap attack cry of Korean taekwondo.

  By the time he reached them, only Molletier was left standing. The other two men lay sprawled and groaning on the ground, and he could make out the sheen of fresh blood on their faces. “Stay down. Stay on the ground,” Tommy commanded, pulling the Taser from the holster under his jacket.

  Molletier had just retrieved his top-knot wig from the ground and was placing it back on his head. “Here’s your wallet,” he said, holding it out to Tommy.

  “That’s the decoy; it only had a few bucks in it,” Tommy answered, taking it. He extracted the bills and threw the empty wallet at one of the thieves. He pulled his shield from his own wallet again and stuck it in the face of one of the men, then the other. “We’re undercover. Where’s the purse you took from a woman’s car out front the other day?”

  “Back there, in the dumpster, if it ain’t been picked up by sanitation yet,” one of the men said. Molletier headed toward it.

  “The cash? What about the cash?” Tommy asked.

  “Gone. We spent it. I’m sorry...”

  His words were interrupted by Tommy’s kick to his ribs. He felt his anger take him over, and picked the man’s head up and smacked it into the alley. He moved to the other man.

  The man crawled up against the building and cowered. “Don’t, please. It was him, he did it all. I didn’t get nothing...”

  Tommy’s boot found his ribs as well. He bent down and yanked his head up by the hair. As the man began to scream in protest, Tommy’s wrist was grabbed from behind.

  “No more. Let’s go,” Molletier said. He was holding the purse in his other hand.

  Tommy addressed the second man. “We’ll leave it at this, but let me tell you, don’t ever take another person’s purse or wallet again. You do, or if you make a big deal out of this lesson, and we’ll be back, and next time, no mercy. Capisce?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” the man said. The other simply nodded slightly. Blood was spreading below his head, onto the grease and broken glass of the alley floor.

  “Do yourself a favor and stay put for a few minutes. There’s a squad car out on the street. They’ll leave if you hang back a bit,” Tommy lied. He tilted his head to the mouth of the alley, indicating Molletier should follow him out.

  He didn’t want to go to the car just yet, in case their curious behavior had been observed. He led Molletier through the city, zig-zagging over a few blocks until he reached his destination—Wyla’s Bar.

  When they were inside and settled at the bar, he motioned to the bartender. Although they were the only patrons who weren’t black, some of the others signaled a greeting to Tommy.

  “The usual for me, Luc,” he said. “What’ll you have, Sensei?”

  “Beer,” Molletier replied.

  “What kind?” Lucius asked.

  “Tap. Anything,” Molletier responded.

  Lucius looked at the two of them. “Damn, Borata. We’re getting to be a real United Nations around here, thanks to you.” Tommy wasn’t sure if he was kidding or not. It was always hard to tell because of the barkeeper’s icy demeanor and dry sense of humor.

  Molletier didn’t seem to care. Tommy figured the sensei had probably been subjected to the same kind of wisecracks, prejudice, and hatred that the other patrons of the bar were used to. The same kind of jokes he’d made himself once upon a time, back in the safe, white environment of the station house and squad car. In this white world. Before I became a better person.

  “So, ah, Sensei. I thought you said you understood the plan?”

  “I understood the plan.”

  “What happened to the part about holding them up until I could get there and talk to them, put a little scare in them?”

  “They were scared already. I didn’t want them to run back at you and hurt you. They were bad guys—I took care of business. Problem solved. I like to hurt the bad guys.”

  “I can handle myself, don’t worry about that,” Tommy said. “Plenty of experience. We got to stick to the plan if we’re going to work together, though. Okay?”

  “I understand,” Molletier said.

  Lucius delivered their order, and Molletier took a long drink from his mug. He looked over at Tommy. “No beer for you?”

  “Nah. I gave it up. Long time ago. Wasn’t good for me. I wasn’t a nice guy back then, and I was much, much worse when I got into that stuff. I’m on a health kick,” he laughed. “Health kick with stage-four cancer.”

  “So, who’s next?” Molletier asked him.

  The bluntness of the comment took Tommy by surprise. Despite his concern about the plan not being followed, he admitted to himself that it was impressive watching Molletier dismantle the two men so quickly. It was like a damn Bruce Lee movie. This guy is a weapon.

  “Good question. I was a cop, but one thing I hate is bad cops. Cocky, aggressive, dishonest bad cops.
Cops are like priests—there’s nothing better than a good one; nothing worse than a bad one. It’s a trust and responsibility that should never be abused. One we both know is a real jerk-off. He’s crooked and racist.”

  “I hate cops,” Molletier added.

  “Whoa. I told you I was a cop, right?”

  “Yeah. Bad cop, I think you said.”

  “Okay, okay. Got it. Jesus. Anyway, this guy won’t be so easy. He’s some kind of MMA guy, what is it—mixed martial arts?”

  “It is garbage. No integrity, no dignity. Showoff bullshit. It’s not from the source—Shaolin. Taekwondo is more than fighting. It’s about discipline, character, perseverance, courtesy. That other stuff, it’s like pro wrestling. Bunch of loud mouth clowns.”

  It was the most Tommy had ever heard the man say at one time. “Sheesh. So I guess you’re in. But can you handle someone like that? He’s a big motherfucker, and nasty.”

  Molletier only stared at him in response. “Even weak from treatment, I’m strong in taekwondo and strong in my mind,” he finally said. “Like you, I don’t have much to lose, and I don’t have much time.”

  15 Carson’s Folly

  “Don’t pull into the parking lot,” Carson said. “Drop me at the vacant warehouse next door, and I’ll walk over. Sorry man. I don’t want my car in this lot, it’s too conspicuous.”

  “The shit I do for you, playing chauffeur on my night off,” Jackson responded. “So, you sure you’re going to need a ride back, or you planning on scoring tonight?” He punched his partner playfully in the arm, causing the car to swerve slightly.

  “Careful, asshole. The last thing we need is to get pulled over heading to a gay club, with me in this getup and coke in the glove box. I’ll spend a few hours casing the place, looking for any back room drug-dealing or worse yet, pay for play. Maybe start a few conversations to see if I can lure anyone to act as a snitch. Then I’ll call for a lift back. I’m gonna need a long hot shower after mingling with a bar full of sweaty faggots.”

  Jackson pulled the car over, and Carson opened the glove box, removing a small vial of cocaine. He prepared a hit for himself and snorted it, then got out of the car, placing a ten-gallon hat on his head. “Put that away for me, will you?” he asked Jackson as he closed the car door and headed for the club.

  Jackson lowered his window and shouted, “Hey, you look like that guy in the Village People,” and drove off.

  The comment irritated Carson, and he thought about bailing out on the idea, but the tingling of his senses and the anticipation were too strong. They propelled him toward the door. It was an idea that he’d kicked around in his head for a long time, and now that he was finally going to execute it, his adrenaline was flowing strongly.

  The muffled, pounding music and garish neon lights across the parking lot were drawing him in, and he had to work to keep his steps measured. Don’t want to appear too anxious. Act like you’re a regular at these things, just from out of town.

  “Howdy, pardner,” someone called out.

  He turned his head and saw a fat older man in a Captain Kangaroo costume approaching the door from the other side of the lot.

  “I’m single tonight too. I like the big, strong, rugged types. Want to hang out inside?” the man continued.

  Carson froze. He felt a confused mix of emotions. Anger and embarrassment won out. “Buzz off, fatso.” He paused and waited for the man to enter, then took a moment to compose himself before going through the door.

  DISCO-BALL LIGHTS SPLAYED the room and added to the festive atmosphere. Seventies dance music blared, and Bobby was happy in his element as he sat at the bar taking it all in. “I love Halloween. You make a pretty good Clint Eastwood, Mike,” he said to his companion on the next seat.

  “Thanks, Bobby. I don’t know about that Bozo costume, though.”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty ridiculous. I wanted the last thing anyone would recognize me in.” Bobby fluffed the huge plumes of orange hair that stood out from the sides of his mask. “Wearing this mask sucks. What a pain in the ass.”

  Mike laughed. “I bet. Well, keep it on at least until the contest. I think you have a shot.”

  Bobby scanned the place, looking for other friends. The gay bar was an oasis, the only place in the city where he could be himself. He watched as other couples happily interacted, and wondered what the world would be like if everyone was accepted for who they were. Who they were born as.

  He looked back at Mike. “Hey, you know how I was saying how my dad has changed? That we talked it out and he’s cool with everything now?”

  “Yeah,” Mike answered. “I’m not sure I’m buying it. All I know is he’s got quite a reputation for being a hard-ass cop. He was in the Marines too, right?”

  “No, it’s true. I told him I’m moving in with someone. I didn’t say who. I think it’s time, Mike. I want to bring you over, to meet him and my mom.” It was something he had yearned for, for a very long time. Just the mention of taking this step made him tingle with excitement. It made him happy, and he signaled a passing bartender for another round for them both.

  Mike hesitated. “Wow, well, that’s a big step. Maybe someday we can be out—be normal like other people. All of these other oppressed groups, they go through hell too, but at least they can live their lives openly. Not us, though. It sucks.”

  “It’s kind of hard to hide it if you’re black or Hispanic,” Bobby laughed. “Easier if you’re gay. But anyway, that one small step, to be able to be ourselves in my house, around my family, would be like a dream. Then maybe we could work toward moving somewhere away from here.”

  “Yeah, like Key West, or the California coast,” Mike added. “How great would that be? A fresh start, nobody being judgmental, we could just be ourselves. No hiding. Right, like a dream.”

  “I know we could find jobs. We could live on the cheap, too,” Bobby said. “Fresh start. I could get out of the cop business, do something I love and enjoy. Imagine our lives without all the job stress and hiding who we are all the time. It’d be...nirvana.”

  “I could write, and you could paint,” Mike mused. “You’re right. What’s more important—a lot of money, killing yourself for a career you hate, or happiness every single day? It sounds too good to be true. But I guess it’s like when you’re on vacation and talk about living at the beach or whatever. Everyone talks about it, but when you get home, back in the grind, it’s forgotten, and nobody ever really does it. Dreams.”

  “That’s the thing, Mike,” Bobby said excitedly. “Who do we want to be? The people like that, or the ones that actually make it happen? We can do this, I know we can. Let’s just go for it—start planning now, and make it our goal for a year from now. A year from today.”

  Mike looked into his drink as if the answer were there. “I guess I’m willing to give it a go if you are, Bobby. Anything’s better than these sad, hidden gay clubs. It’s hard to relax even here. I keep waiting for the door to burst open and the right-wing militia to come in and arrest us all for being subversive perverts or something. With the rise of the conservatives and the religious right, it’s like we’re going back to the fifties or something. That crazy politician that’s been in the news—Brand—he scares me.”

  “I guess the fifties weren’t a bad time if you were a straight, white, Christian male,” he laughed. “Anyway, that settles it,” Bobby said. “We’re doing this. Step one with my parents, and step two getting the hell out of Dodge. You and me, cowboy Clint!” He punched Mike in the arm for emphasis.

  From the corner of his eye, Bobby picked up a tall, muscular man making his way across the dance floor, headed in their direction. He was dressed in garish Western gear, wearing a fake mustache, large aviator sunglasses, and an oversized cowboy hat. As he crossed the floor, he shoved away dancers who moved into his path. Despite the costume, Bobby recognized him immediately. Carson.

  “Mike, real quick. This guy coming toward us, he’s trouble. He’s a cop in my precinct. He’s
not gay. He’s not here to have fun...at least I don’t think so. He’s probably here for trouble. He’s looking for me, or he wants to take this place down. Don’t talk to him if he comes over.”

  CARSON COULDN’T STAND the thought that he was breathing in their sweat, touching them. Faggots. A well-built man, dressed as a western serape-wearing High Plains Drifter, caught his eye. A spot at the bar opened next to him. I need a fucking beer.

  As he reached it, he squeezed in. “How’s it going, Clint? Buy you a drink?” he asked the man next to him. The man stared into his drink and didn’t answer. Carson signaled a bartender and ordered a beer and a shot.

  “Excuse me. I said how’s it going, Clint Eastwood?” He waited. “I saw Bozo here a minute ago. Where the fuck did Bozo go?” He laughed and became annoyed that the man didn’t appreciate his humor.

  “Had to make a phone call,” Mike finally responded.

  “You two seem like a mismatch. He looked pretty fat to me; from a distance, anyway. I like your getup. I’m a big Clint fan. The Duke, too.” Carson found himself experiencing strange, conflicting emotions, balancing the role he was playing against his homophobic self-image. He felt he was losing control of one in favor of the other. “You want to catch a flick sometime?”

  Mike didn’t answer, and Carson’s irritation rose. “Why’re you being rude? Don’t like tough guys? You like the sissy ones?”

  “Sorry. I don’t feel good,” Mike said.

  “You being smart with me, boy?”

  Mike had finally had enough. He looked over at Carson. “Why are you here if you aren’t gay?” he asked.

  “Who says I’m not gay?” Carson asked.

  “That’s the way you’re coming off,” Mike answered.

  “Well, maybe your gaydar needs adjusting.”

  “Maybe you need to be honest with yourself,” Mike said, finally looking him in the eye.

  Carson downed the shot and gave up on the rest of his beer, slapping Mike on the back of the head as he left. “See you later, asshole.” He headed toward the bathroom. I hate to go here, but I got to piss like a racehorse. He pushed through the crowd, toward the overhead sign for the men’s room.