Vigilante Angels Trilogy

by Billy DeCarlo

  She twisted her face into a mask of shock. “Why, how dare you! I’ll call security...” she stammered.

  He pulled his wallet, making sure to expose the shield from his former occupation. “I am security, bitch. The real deal, not these rent-a-cops you got. Now ring me up so I can get outta here.”

  She hustled to complete his purchase, and he turned to stare her down before leaving.

  He entered an elevator along with a few family members on their way to visit other patients. They carried happy, colorful gifts like his, but they all wore expressions of sadness. They all rode together, the elevator dispensing them at the various floors along the way. Each left without a word, lost in their own thoughts.

  Getting off at Bobby’s floor, he walked past the nurses’ station. He knew them all by name now, but this time they were consumed in their work, and for the first time they didn’t greet him cheerfully. “Why so quiet? Everybody having a bad day or something?” he asked as he made his way past.

  Only one of them turned away from their tasks to acknowledge the comment with a nod. He sensed pity, and his stomach began to turn. He continued, rounded the final corner toward Bobby’s room, and noticed a group in the hallway. Margie. Diane. Carmen. All crying. Are the cops waiting for me in there? Maybe they know what I did to the guy’s car?

  He quickened his pace, and they noticed him coming. Margie looked at him and turned away. Carmen started in his direction and intercepted him halfway there.

  “Tommy, I’m so sorry,” she said, hugging him.

  And suddenly he realized. Logic would no longer allow alternative scenarios. “He’s gone?” Tommy asked.

  “I’m sorry,” Carmen continued. “I was there, they tried everything. They tried so hard. I think he fought and fought. There was too much brain swelling, too much damage. I’m so sorry, Tommy.”

  “He’s gone?” Tommy asked again, incredulous, unbelieving.

  He pulled away, pushed her away from him. “He’s really gone, Carmen?”

  “Yes, Tommy. Yes. Please go to your wife, she needs you.”

  “That’s something new. The thing is, I don’t need anyone. Not her, not you. I got things to do that are more important than standing around here bawling with you people.”

  He let go of the balloons, letting them drift to the ceiling, and dropped the bag of items he was carrying. The elevator returned to the floor simultaneously, seeming to invite him, to take him to a different place. He entered it without looking back and stabbed a button with his finger.

  In that moment, he felt everything leave him: the quest to be good; any love he had left for anyone or anything; the will to live. It was all replaced by a single need—to die someplace nice and then go to join his son and Moses in the hereafter, if there was one.

  As he left the hospital and began his journey, he developed the first stages of his newly altered plan. He allowed himself a short time of mourning and decided he would move on after that, to accomplish his mission.

  He thought of the highlights of the times he and Bobby had spent together. He replayed the boy’s birth and his pride at having a son. He flipped through a selection of memories over the years, but the one he lingered on the longest, well longer than the time he had allotted, was a single recent night in a seedy bar.

  His son’s supportive acceptance of his bad news; his son’s words of encouragement; his son’s dreams of becoming an artist by the beach; his son’s excitement at being accepted by him and finally moving on with his life in the open; his son standing under a single red spotlight, enthralling an entire room full of people, singing a classic blues song.

  You damn sure made me proud, son. I’ll never be the man you were, and that’s all I ever hoped for, for you to exceed me. I’ll see you soon, my sweet boy. We’ll be together forever, someplace far better than this world.

  30 The Fight

  Sensei Molletier waited silently from just inside the dark patch of trees bordering the strip-mall parking lot. The trees hid a grassy drainage catchment, which was in the center of the clearing behind him. He was dressed in his black Korean martial-arts uniform. It was well-worn and comfortable.

  He took pride in being godanja, of high rank, and specifically Ship-dan, a rare tenth-degree black belt. He reflected on the lifetime of hard, disciplined training he had endured in his homeland to achieve his rank. Long ago.

  He reached down and held the ends of the belt in his hands, fingering the fine Korean lettering inscribed into it. As he watched a large man lifting weights through the storefront window of the fitness center, he continued to journey through his past, wandering through the struggle of his family, oppressed by the North Korean regime. The sacrifices that his good parents had made, and the risks they took to escape to the South when he was a boy, all came to mind. Those were the happy years, with the family he loved, in the homeland that he loved.

  Then he allowed himself to relive the tragedy of their death, and his long emigration process to America, and the struggle to establish himself, all while grieving every day. He had promised to never forget them, and to fight for oppressed people against tyranny, for his entire life. Until lately, he’d always felt that he hadn’t lived up to that vow, other than to inject discipline and ethics into every student who came into his dojo, in hopes that they would go out into the world and make it a better place.

  Now that his own end and the manner of his death were in sight, he felt truly virtuous for the first time and able to act on the years of pent-up hatred for those who bullied and hurt others.

  He thought of the insecure, clumsy, overweight boy who had come into the studio with his overbearing father. He took the boy as far as he could and believed he had helped him, until he suddenly seemed to lose interest and stopped coming for instruction. Young jeja Bobby, a good boy. He thought about that boy, now dead because of the actions of a bully—the same man he watched through the fitness center window.

  He felt the strain of anger building in his thoughts, and he suppressed it to focus on his target, his plan, and his intent. He questioned whether he should have included Borata in this, or told him, but he didn’t want the distraction. He liked to work alone and not have to trust others, who were never as focused or disciplined as he was. They make mistakes.

  This was his mission, and he was determined to bring justice to the man who had just finished his workout and gone through the door to the men’s locker room. They’re closing soon. It won’t be long.

  He gauged the distance to Carson’s Porsche and went over the plan in his head again and again to pass the time. He wished that he had the strength and quickness of his earlier years, and hoped that his weakened body would hold out. Back then, I would have destroyed him quickly. He reminded himself to account for his lack of depth perception in choosing his tactics. He was prepared to spend himself on this, give everything he had, if necessary. His aim was not to kill, but to punish.

  He began to try to stretch out his stiff muscles, saddened by how much weaker he was now, how much more tired than just a few months ago. He had always felt invincible, and now he couldn’t deny that he was far from it. He went about his kata in slow motion: blocks, punches, kicks. Just enough to prepare his muscles, trying carefully to preserve whatever energy he had remaining.

  CARSON SMILED AT THE fitness center receptionist on his way toward the exit. He stopped and leaned on her desk with an elbow, making sure to press his bicep against his ribs to accentuate its size. “Given any thought to going away with me for a few days?” he asked her. “Wherever you want to go; you name it.”

  She continued looking at her computer screen. “I’m still happily married, so that’s a no,” she said in a dismissive tone.

  “C’mon. That’s what business trips are for, right? Tell him you’re going to research another location for the gym.”

  “I’m busy, Carson. Give it a break, okay?”

  His flirtatious demeanor switched to anger in a split second. “Fine. Your loss, honey. Dri
ve safe and obey the speed limit, know what I’m saying?”

  She ignored him, and he ignored the laughter behind him, leaving in a huff and upset that his good mood had been lost. He made his way across the parking lot to his car, parked at the perimeter to avoid dents from others.

  His limbs ached from the aggressive workout, and he was exhausted from the preceding twelve-hour shift. I’ll take a swing by that gay club on the way home, wait in the parking lot to see if that Mike dude is around.

  He pressed the unlock button on his key fob and thought he heard another sound beneath its squawk and the clunk of the door unlocking. He turned in a circle, scanning his surroundings. Then he heard it again.

  “Carson.”

  The voice came from just inside the woods. He moved a little closer and debated retrieving his service weapon from the glove box. Curiosity got the better of him, and he took a few more steps.

  “Come on. Come closer. Be brave,” the eerie voice implored.

  He cautiously moved closer. As his eyes adjusted, he spotted a bald Asian man in a karate uniform a short distance away, standing under moonlight in a clearing just past the trees. The man was missing an eye, the blank socket covered with stretched scar tissue.

  “Oh, shit. If it ain’t Bruce Lee,” he said.

  “Let’s go. Man on man,” the man continued. “I’m unarmed.” He held his arms out.

  “Molletier, right? The guy with Borata, teaching karate to those spooks in the park? What’s your beef, buddy?” Carson asked. He thought again about going to the car for his firearm. Maybe not. I’m in enough trouble, anyway. I can’t shoot him, but I can kick his ass. This is too good to pass up. Priceless.

  “You like to hurt people, Carson. Let’s see how you like to get hurt.”

  Carson processed several theories. “Who sent you—Borata? Is this about his kid? Tell that old man to fight his own battles.”

  “I’ll tell him you were afraid of me. You like to pick on old men and people weaker than yourself. You’re a coward, in your heart. I can always smell it.”

  Carson’s anger returned. I don’t get enough chances to kick ass these days. “Your kung-fu bullshit won’t help you, dumbass. You know about the new stuff? Cage fighting? You’re about to find out.” He dropped his workout bag and headed toward the man, who immediately took a fighting stance.

  Carson laughed, now excited, and charged. He decided to go low for a quick takedown and get it over with, so he could be on his way. As he started to lower himself and reach for Molletier’s legs, he yelled, “I’ll fuck you up—”

  He didn’t get to finish the sentence. He saw a flash of movement, heard a swish of air and clothing, and his head exploded into a swirling cluster of tiny points of light.

  He staggered sideways, losing his balance, and backed up to reassess. His opponent stood back. “Alright, douchebag. Maybe I underestimated you. Let’s go again.” This time he approached more cautiously, guard up, looking for a way to grab and grapple the smaller man in order to make the most of his size advantage.

  Molletier kept his calm demeanor and stared at Carson intently from behind his fighting stance. “Come at me, bitch. Come on,” Carson taunted. The man didn’t move. Carson went at him again, a little slower this time, and was bringing his big leg up for a side-kick when the man seemed to levitate into a short jump, twisting sideways, and plant a foot deep into his solar plexus, taking his wind away.

  He backed up again, gasping for air, and felt blood running from his eyebrow into his right eye, taking away half his vision with it. He wiped at it, and charged again, raging. He grabbed at the man and had a handful of his clothing when he felt himself sailing upside down over the man’s body. He landed on his back, vulnerable, yet the man didn’t come at him to take advantage.

  That’s a mistake. He jumped up, his stomach aching from the kick.

  Taking stock, he now noticed that the man was attempting to hide his heavy breathing. That’s why he didn’t keep coming. He’s out of gas. Out of shape. Trying to conserve energy. Bingo. Carson calmed himself, strategizing. “I’m too big for you, little man. Too young. Too fit. You’re fast but old and sick, like your buddy. You’re out of shape,” he taunted, circling. He moved in, waited for Molletier to counter, then backed up. He kept him moving as much as he could.

  He feinted low, then rose up and blocked the kick he knew would come. While Molletier was slightly off-balance, he was able to grab a handful of his shirt. He pulled the man into him, taking space away, and reached to get a hold with his other hand.

  Molletier executed a crisp block, ripping his grip away, sent a short kick to his knee, buckling it, then backed away to regain his buffer.

  Carson hobbled a few steps, still circling. He’s trying to disable me limb by limb, using as little energy as he can. I’m too big; he’s not hurting me as much as he figured. He psyched himself, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He came in, leading with a straight kick. Molletier blocked it, and Carson took advantage of his taller stature by landing a downward punch to the man’s head. His fist stung, but he saw the man stagger slightly and step back, reaching the edge of the drainage pit, then lose his balance and tumble backward down the slope.

  Carson leaped forward, hopping down the hill to try to catch his adversary as he rolled down the incline. Molletier tumbled himself intentionally, trying to pick up speed so he could get to the bottom and regroup. Carson tried to chase, limping down the hill as fast as he could without falling.

  Molletier reached bottom and was beginning to spring up when Carson took a risk and dove at him, making contact and driving them both down into the shallow water at the bottom of the drainage pit. The man struggled to free himself, but now Carson had the advantage in strength and size. He was atop his opponent, who was face-down. Carson moved quickly, leveraging his grappling expertise to tie up the man’s limbs. He slipped his arm under the other man’s, then brought his hand back over Molletier’s neck, driving his head into the water.

  “You want to die here, motherfucker? You want to die tonight?” His adrenaline was surging, and he was angry at being harmed, at ruining his favorite, expensive workout clothing, at being challenged. He wanted to kill. He pulled Molletier’s head back up. “You hear me, gook? Answer!”

  “Go ahead. Kill me. I’m dead already,” Molletier answered.

  “Pussy. I thought you were a tough guy. Not so tough now, are you?” Carson drove the man’s head down into the water again and held it there, enjoying his domination but wanting to enjoy someone begging for their life, his favorite part. Molletier stopped struggling, and Carson realized he had lost track of how long he’d held him under.

  He pulled the man’s head back up and found it limp. Fear swept through him as he worried he’d killed him. He grabbed Molletier’s belt and dragged him back up the hill, flipping him over. As soon as he’d rolled the man onto his back, a foot shot up and caught him on the nose and mouth, snapping his head back.

  Carson flew into a rage again and dropped down, punching the defenseless man in the head. When he saw the bloody mess on the man’s face, he stopped. This time he made sure Molletier was truly unconscious but breathing.

  He dragged him up further up the slope to level ground and sat him up against the base of a tree. He took the karate belt off and tied it around Molletier’s neck and the tree, making sure it was just tight enough to allow a limited amount of air as long as he didn’t struggle when he came to, and out of reach to untie the knot.

  He got into his truck and drove. As he expected, when he reached his destination he found the Black Eagles loitering outside.

  Lukas rose up and motioned for the others to stay put as he walked over. Carson rolled his window down.

  “Tell your friend Borata he can find his chink buddy tied to a tree over by the gym on Maple Street. He better hurry. And tell him I’ll be talking to him very soon.”

  He raised the window and peeled off down the street.

  31 Meetings

>   Mike sat nervously on Tommy’s couch. “I’ve never been to this part of town. It’s kind of unnerving.”

  Tommy reached for his cup of coffee. “You know what?” he replied, “There’s better people here than anywhere else in this city. Definitely better people than the ones in the rich neighborhoods. These people work hard and don’t have much to show for it. They enjoy the simple things. They love each other like I remember people used to do. You’re safe here.”

  “Okay, but I can’t stay long.”

  “We don’t need much time. Hopefully, the sensei got my messages and will be here soon. I haven’t been able to reach him for days. We all have to avoid contact. The first thing I have to ask is, are you sure about this? Absolutely sure?”

  “I am. All my life, people like us have been made miserable by people like him. All the way back as far as I can remember. I’m going to do this for me, and for Bobby. That cop’s got to pay.”

  “Listen, then. All you know is that you met the cop at the club that night, he gave you his info, and you agreed to meet him. Nothing more, nothing less, you got it? You weren’t aware that anything else was going to happen. You can even say that you mentioned it to me. That puts the focus on me. I’ll be gone, so I don’t care.”

  Mike gave Tommy a determined look. “Got it.”

  “I’m not telling you about anything or anybody else related to this. Just get Carson there, and keep him talking. You don’t know anything else.”

  “Okay.”

  “Alright. So what’s next for you, Mike?”

  “I don’t have any family around here. They’re all Midwestern religious zealots. All I had around here was my job and Bobby. There’s nothing more for me here, now that he’s gone. I sold off my half of the garage to my business partner.” He began to cry, and Tommy put an arm around him, fighting back his own emotion.

  “I’ll make this right. Carson will pay. Don’t say where you’re going. Not to me or anyone.”