They re-entered the hospital and waited outside the pharmacy until it started to get busy, then went in and got into line. When he had worked his way to the front, he handed the prescription over.
The pharmacist examined it. “Forbaxatel. I don’t normally see a prescription for this amount of this drug,” he said under his breath.
“Yeah, I just came from the doc. I’ve got to go somewhere warmer for a while, and I’ll be seeing another doc while I’m away. He wanted to make sure I didn’t run out, or have availability problems there. It’s kind of a rural place.”
“I understand. I’m just going to call upstairs to verify.”
Tommy tried to think quickly, and he was getting sicker by the moment. “Hey, listen, I’m in a bit of a hurry, not feeling well at all. I have to get that stuff into me, and the other one for the nausea meds. Stat.”
“Just a moment,” the man said, picking up the phone.
He looked back at Molletier, thinking of the ridiculous risk they had taken. He was about to signal a quick departure when he noticed the pharmacist looking frustrated while waiting for someone to answer.
“Nobody’s answering,” he said to Tommy. “It’s early and they may not be in yet, or making the rounds. Would you mind waiting?”
“Listen,” Tommy answered. “I got to get home, get my fellow patient here home, and get these meds in me. Besides, I’m having the shits about every half hour from all of this, and nauseous as hell. You don’t want a mess to clean up. My buddy here is going on the trip with me, he’s got the same script. He’s in the same trial.”
Molletier moved forward and gave the man his prescription. “We got to leave, very sick. Check with doctor later, please.”
The line behind them was growing, and people were beginning to grumble. Finally, the pharmacist went to the dispensary and came back with the filled drugs.
They hurried across the parking lot, white paper bags in hand. “You want me to drive?” Molletier asked.
“Good God, no,” Tommy answered. They got into his car and drove as quickly as the speed limit would allow, first to drop Molletier off at the airport with his bags, and then to his apartment. He checked carefully for any hidden police presence before entering the block. He parked a distance away, approached on foot through back alleys, and then climbed up the fire escape ladder that he had left in the lowered position.
Inside his apartment, he quickly packed an old sea bag from his Marine days, with a few essentials and all of the cash that he had been withdrawing from his accounts over the past few days. The last items he placed inside it were the two white paper bags from the pharmacy. Thanks once more, Molletier. This should be enough to see me through for a while, anyway.
When the sea bag was ready, he sat down at the same kitchen table that his friend Moses had written his suicide note at, and using the same pad and pen wrote several letters himself: one to his wife apologizing for the bad years; one to Carmen thanking her for her care; and one a suicide note to all concerned.
He moved to the living room and sat on the same ragged couch that had belonged to Moses. As he surveyed the room, his mind flooded with memories of their times together there—good and bad. He pictured his friend sitting in his usual chair, smoking a joint and enjoying his music. See you soon, friend. It’s all I have to look forward to now. Just a little more business to attend to first.
He rose and gathered his things, then climbed out and hustled down the fire escape with the sea bag as quickly as his tortured body would allow. The Eagles were still at work, and he wanted to get out without encountering anyone.
When he reached the alley, he walked down it with the sea bag slung over his shoulder, in the direction of the setting sun. Whitey poked his head from the top of the bag and licked the back of Tommy’s neck.
35 Arrival
Tommy Domingo unpacked the contents of his sea bag while his faithful dog lay watching in the doorway. A gentle breeze flowed through the small cottage’s windows and felt soothing on his skin. He could hear the sound of the ocean nearby and smelled the salt in the air. Very therapeutic. Not a bad place to die.
He stopped and sat on the simple metal frame bed to catch his breath. His dog leaped up and settled in next to him. When he had recovered, he spread all of his belongings out, making sure that there was no trace of his previous identity. He placed his semi-automatic weapon and two boxes of ammunition in one of the weathered dresser’s drawers.
He examined the few pieces of fake ID that he’d bought back in the city from the one underworld person that he trusted, paying a sufficient price to guarantee silence. The picture on the laminated card, a very aged and weathered-looking old man, stared back at him. The name on it was still new to him. Thomas Domingo. He burned it into his brain, forcing himself to dismiss who he used to be and accept this new person. Just for whatever time I have left.
He unscrewed the top of a prescription bottle and shook out one of the large pills inside. Don’t tell me I can’t have some damn Forbaxatel. He opened another with Korean writing on it and extracted a seaweed-green pill. He washed them down with a splash of tap water from the faucet, the rank aftertaste of the green pill lingering in his mouth. Damn it, Sensei. This stuff better work, at least for a little while. Looking out of the windows, he saw only jungle-type brush and trees in every direction. No neighbors.
He was thankful that the landlord was in a different state, had agreed to set everything up over the phone and keep all utilities in his name in exchange for a sizable wired deposit and six months of rent in advance.
The sea bag was almost empty. He extracted a folder and took out a photograph of a younger version of himself, standing with his arm around a large young man in a police uniform. He propped it up on the stand next to his bed, where he could see it in the dim light. A folded-up, tattered poster of Bob Marley followed that, and he carefully installed it on the wall with a few of the old thumb tacks that were stuck in the wood. Next, he pulled out a bottle in a brown paper sack. He unscrewed the top and took a long drink from it. He sat the bottle next to the bed and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Mad dog. That’s me.
Lying down on the thin mattress, he closed his eyes, and the memories began to wash over him. He could no more suppress them than he could suppress the cold chills, pain, and nausea from his disease and the medicines he took for it.
It was quiet, except for the rustling of the palm trees in the breeze, and it took him away to his dreams.
The End
Book III: The Candidate
Billy DeCarlo
Wild Lake Press, Inc
Hackettstown, NJ
Copyright © 2017 by Billy DeCarlo
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.
Billy DeCarlo/Wild Lake Press, Inc
P.O. Box 7045, Hackettstown, NJ 07840
billydecarlo.com (blog, newsletter signup)
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Cover by Archangel Ink http://archangelink.com/
Editing by WordVagabond https://wordvagabond.com/
Vigilante Angels Book III: The Candidate/Billy DeCarlo.—1st ed.
ISBN 978-0-9972196-8-5
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To all who have suffered through disease or at the hands of others.
For false messiahs and false prophets will arise and perform great signs and wonders, to lead astray, if possible, even the elect.
―MATTHEW 24:24
1 The Candidate
THOMAS BRAND WATC
HED from his office window above as a woman waited to cross a busy intersection in the relentless downpour. She juggled her umbrella and a grocery bag while holding her child’s hand. A driver slowed, motioning her across, and she jumped at the opportunity, hurrying with her son into the street.
Another driver approached from the opposite direction and braked hard at the last second, blaring his horn at them. It startled the woman; she paused briefly in panic, and then pulled her son into a quick trot.
She reached the curb, stumbling as she looked back to ensure her son could negotiate it safely. As she fell hard to the sidewalk, she released his hand so he wouldn’t be pulled down with her. Her bag of groceries spilled onto the wet concrete as her umbrella was blown inside-out and flew out of her grasp. She attempted to regain her feet as her child cried beside her.
Brand erupted in laughter. “Oh, Jesus. I wish I had a video of this shit. Brenda, Harry, come over and check out this elephant wallowing around on the sidewalk. She looks like a hippo at the watering hole on National Geographic. It’s priceless.”
“Sir, please,” Brenda replied. “We’ve got to focus. The interview is in a few hours. The whole country will be watching, and this network air-time is critical. Please come and sit down so we can rehearse your talking points.”
Harry Stinson rose obediently and stood next to Brand at the window. “I hope she’s not hurt,” he said.
“Come on, Stinson. She’s well-padded—a fat fuck like you,” Brand said, jabbing the man’s arm. “That’s some funny shit though, watching fat people fall and try to get up. It’s like in the old comedies, before everyone got politically correct, right?”
Stinson didn’t answer, and Brand continued. “Check out her kid. Fucking half-and-half. See, this is what I mean. That’s why we need to win the nomination and the presidency. We’re losing our damn country. We’re losing our white identity. The Democrats encourage all this race-mixing, letting the queers run around in the open, and they want to let every filthy immigrant into the country. Anything goes with these liberals.”
Brand peered through the rain-splashed glass. “All my hard work to keep my late father’s empire smoothly running is what made me a wealthy man. I have to turn over too much of my hard-earned cash to the government just so rabble like that can get a check in the mail every month for doing nothing. I bet that bag of food she just wasted came from food stamps I paid for.
“Stinson, pour me another bourbon.”
“Which is why this meeting is so important,” Brenda insisted. “Please, let’s sit down and do the mock interview. They’re going to push you, try to get you to say something controversial so they can make you look bad. Like what you just said, for example. You shouldn’t be so candid, even in places or among people you believe you can trust.”
“I’m not worried about that, not here in my office with you two, anyway.” Brand returned to the leather executive chair behind his large, carved maple desk. Stinson placed a full tumbler on the blotter, took a seat next to Brenda, and picked his notepad and pen up from the floor.
“Good,” Brenda said. “I’m going to play the interviewer. Harry, jot down anything we should review later, but don’t interrupt our flow. We’ll go over it point-by-point after we’re done. I’ll start the machine now.” She pressed a button on the recorder.
“Welcome to our viewers. I’m Brenda Mallory with Signal News Network. We’re here with Republican presidential candidate Thomas Brand, ahead of the widely anticipated Republican primary debate. Sir, welcome.”
“Thank you, Brenda. I’m a big fan of your network, but I say that to all the networks, and I despise all of them. I can’t wait to be president and shut down the media like they did in Russia. I’m also a big fan of your lovely ass and big tits.” He laughed again, slapping his desk, and Stinson followed suit until a glare from Brenda shut them down.
“If we’re not going to be serious, I’m out of here,” she said angrily. “Or better yet, I’ll insist that your wife sit in on these meetings.”
“Alright, alright. Can’t we have a little fun while we’re doing all this boring shit?” Brand picked up a remote control and turned on a large television hanging from the opposite wall. “Let’s see what they’re saying about me today. That’s more important than playing these stupid games.”
2 Domingo
Tommy Domingo scratched his thick white beard. He considered shaving it to relieve the constant itching, but didn’t want to risk being identified. He lay down on the bed in his sparse bungalow. An ocean breeze blew through the windows, pleasantly cooling the sweat on his skin. It was too hot and humid for Whitey to join him as he typically did, so the dog gazed at him from the cool tile floor in the bathroom.
He reflected on his decision to abruptly leave his doctors, chemo treatments, and cheating wife behind to spend the remainder of his time quietly alone in the Keys. And I missed my son’s funeral. My poor Bobby.
“I guess we had no choice, Whitey. No sense in waiting around for them to figure out I killed that corrupt cop and show up to bust me. I do miss Nurse Carmen, though. It’s just you and me now, and this ain’t a bad place to die.
“This is the life Bobby wanted. He and I should be here together. He just wanted to ditch the rat race and be a guy on the sidewalk making spray-paint art. Why the hell do people spend their lives sitting in traffic and shoveling snow, when they could live somewhere like here? Why did I, come to think of it?”
He rose, went into the kitchen, and filled Whitey’s water dish with fresh, cool water from the tap, then scraped the remains of a can of dog food into his food bowl. He unscrewed the cap of a large orange prescription bottle and took one of the pills inside, washing it down with a handful of water. He inspected the label. Forbaxatel. Take with food. “We’re both almost out of the grub we brought with us, buddy. I guess we better finally venture out of here to restock.”
He went to the rust-speckled refrigerator and removed a large bottle of wine, holding it up to the window to inspect its level. “More importantly, we’re almost out of vino.” He tipped the bottle up and guzzled a large quantity. “Fruit of the vine, Whitey. A gift from God...or whoever.”
Whitey ran from the bathroom to the kitchen for his treasure as Tommy moved to a rattan couch in the living room. He sat on its thin, flimsy cushions with his bottle and turned on the television. He leaned forward to adjust the antenna, bringing the picture into focus just as the evening news was beginning.
Tommy reached beneath the couch and pulled out a tin cigar box. Pulling the lid off with a metallic pop, he examined the layers of cellophane bags neatly rolled inside. He lifted it to his nose, closed his eyes and inhaled. “Oh damn, Whitey. Why did I ever waste so much time smoking cigs when this stuff was available? Thank you, Moses, for the stash. Rest in peace, my friend.”
He tried to place it on the coffee table and misjudged, spilling the box onto the floor. As he picked up the tin to refill it, he noticed a folded paper in the bottom. He pulled it out and read it carefully.
Friend Tommy,
We talked a lot in the chemo ward about being able to die on our own terms, so I wanted to give you a parting gift. I put this in your stash box before you left so that you’d find it when you probably need it most—when your marijuana was almost gone. You only need one, but I left you two, just in case you screw it up and lose or break one. Take it straight for a more immediate effect, or dilute it if you wish. I hope you never need to use it, but I know if the time comes, you’ll want it, as I’m sure I will also.
Your friend,
Sensei Molletier
He searched the floor, picking up the rolled bags of pot and putting them back into the cigar box. When he had replaced them all, he slid off the couch slowly, grunting with the effort. On his knees, he searched again, this time spotting two small black vials beneath the coffee table. He retrieved them and sat back on the couch, turning them over in his hand. They had identical white labels with Korean lettering.
The scene cut to a Brand campaign rally, where a large crowd of fired-up supporters raised their fists and cheered at everything the candidate said from his pulpit on the stage. A large banner that read “Brand Brigade” was held above a group of men and women. The banner featured a Confederate flag on one side of the lettering, and “White Power” with a clenched fist on the other. Some in the group sported Nazi symbols. How many of our people died fighting that garbage, and now this closet racist stands for it?
The candidate was railing against the scourge of homosexuality that he claimed was poisoning society’s values. Tommy thought of his gentle son and what he must have endured during his life because of homophobes like Brand, not to mention the corrupt cop, Carson, who had caused Bobby’s death.
At that moment, he saw the root of all of the evil that had tortured and tormented less fortunate people like his son and his late African-American friend Moses for their entire lives. People like Brand, who lavished themselves with riches, gorging on the fruits of their wealth with no sense of charity, viewing those less fortunate with disdain. I’d like to cut the head off that evil snake.
A black protester had been detected near the front of the audience by the candidate, who then urged the crowd to remove him. The camera zoomed in to show the man being hustled toward the exit by large security guards. He was shoved and spit on by the people under the banner as he passed them.
Vigilante Angels Trilogy Page 29
