Killing Ways 2: Urban Stories
Page 8
“Oh I just talked with that Yolanda Morales lady. You know, from the Antonia Flores case.”
“And what? Did she confess?”
“Nope. She says she’s going out tonight to get some evidence on Tim McElhone and David Franklin. Pictures, recordings, testimony…”
“You told her about them?”
“Of course not. She’s been snooping on her own.”
“That’s dangerous,” Hamilton said.
“Yeah.”
Hours later that night – too late – Yolanda Morales, found out that if she had been hunting the two young men, they, in turn, had been stalking her. And they had a guide. As she opened her apartment door, a badge was put before her eyes. She took a stutter step back to get the badge in focus – the badge and the gun that was aimed at her. She went quietly out to the unmarked car. Behind them was a Porsche, black.
When they got to deserted Farragut Street, Yolanda was praying for strength for the test to come. Detective Hamilton ordered her out of the car.
“You see these two nice gentlemen here?” he asked. He pointed to Tim and David, getting out of the Porsche.
“You’ve been very naughty. You’ve been harassing these men, and it is time for you to learn a lesson. These men are going to teach it to you.”
Hamilton stepped back and let the two do their worst. There were parts of what happened next that Detective Hamilton did not have the stomach to watch. He sat in his car until the men got tired of their frenzy. Then he got out with a throwaway handgun. He raised it and aimed at Yolanda.
“Let me,” David Franklin said. He reached out for the gun.
“But you paid me to…”
“I want to.”
Hamilton handed over the gun, and Franklin pressed the barrel up to Yolanda’s forehead.
“What you got to say now, bitch?” he asked. There was blood dripping from his chin. Her blood.
“My name,” she rasped out. “My name is Yolanda Rivera Morales.” She almost laughed at what she had thought of to say after all this time and as her life was ebbing out of her, pooling inside of her.
“I’m going to kill you,” Franklin said. He tried to put some special emphasis into the words, but there is no emphasis to be put on those words. He pressed the gun to her head with more force.
“Listen, Mister Man. You do what you gotta do. I done my duty, and I’m ready to meet the Lord.”
She pressed back against the gun.
Franklin pulled the trigger and put a hole in her head. She flopped onto the sidewalk, and he put another two bullets into her chest as though she needed them. Then he stepped back and turned to Hamilton. He was breathing hard.
“If we pay the same amount next week,” he asked. “Can we get this same service?”
Hamilton widened his eyes, then shook his head. “You guys want to do this again, you find another way. I’m a cop. I can’t do this every week.”
“Every month?”
Hamilton shrugged. He took the gun back from the young lawyer.
“Maybe,” he said.
This story was first published in BRONX NOIR, edited by SJ Rozan for Akashic Books. I dedicate it to the memory of Yolanda Flores. She worked very hard for many years to help the down and out because she’d been where they were until she was saved by her faith in Jesus.
About The Author
Steven Torres was born and raised in the South Bronx in New York City. He's the author of the PRECINCT PUERTO RICO series of novels from St. Martin's Press and THE CONCRETE MAZE from Dorchester Publishing. He lives in Connecticut with his wife and daughter and teaches at Manchester Community College when he's not writing. He promises (or threatens) that more stories and even novels are on the way. Feel free to contact him through his website: Steventorres.com or at his blog crimetimecafe.blogspot.com.
Table of Contents
Chapter One: Stoop and Clyde
Chapter Three: Stoop and Elizabeth
Bronx, Summer, 1971
Padrino
Elena Speaks of the City, Under Siege
Early Fall
About The Author