Burke's Gamble

by William F. Brown

“Crookshanks! That’s Hermione’s cat in Harry Potter.” Patsy nodded knowingly and smiled. “Excellent choice.”

  Bob shook his head and took several steps toward the alarm box to reset everything, when he heard an all-too-familiar voice call to him from the dark alley outside the garage.

  “Well, lookie what we got here,” Shaka Corliss said as he stepped into the pool of light outside the garage, grinning. “It’s my smart-ass Army friend, Major Burke, two of his slot machine cuties, and a new little play pal. My, my, ain’t we gonna have us some fun tonight!”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Standing in the bright light directly behind Bob’s old Saturn and perhaps fifteen feet away, Shaka Corliss grinned at Bob with his white-capped teeth flashing under the bright spotlights on the rear of the garage. His bald head, shades, and gold chains gave him the intended street thug appearance, but they weren’t nearly as impressive as the chrome-plated .44-Magnum in his hand. To Corliss’s immediate left and right were the twin Hulks from the Bimini Bay, not that Corliss really needed any help. The big, hog-leg revolver was pointed at the center of Bob’s chest. The two Hulks had garden-variety 9-millimeter Glocks pointed at the two women, but the expressions on their faces were no less murderous.

  Bob knew he had to act, and fast. “Is that you hiding out there in the shadows, Shaka?” he asked, silently cussing himself out for allowing these three bozos to get the drop on him. They did, however, and maybe that was a blessing in disguise. He could deny it all he wanted, but marriage and corporate life had left him soft and fat. The combat awareness and lightning-quick reflexes he had depended upon for so many years had grown rusty and dull, like a fine Henry hunting knife left out in the rain. That could be fatal for a man who still thought of himself as a “lean mean fighting machine.” From now on, he would need to be doubly diligent, if there was going to be a “from now on.”

  “I ain’t hidin’ nowhere,” Corliss bristled. “But you gonna be dead, you don’t shut up,” he said as he pulled back the hammer on the big Remington revolver with a loud click!

  Few things focus the mind better than the sound of a cocked pistol. Triangulating the bodies in the space around him, they had him trapped here inside the garage. Retreating or doing nothing was not an option, not with three armed gunmen standing in front of him and the three girls arrayed behind. No, when you are surprised, outgunned, and outflanked, the best choice was to strike first and attack. To paraphrase Chesty Puller when he and his Marines were surrounded by ten Chinese divisions, “Those poor bastards. They've got us right where we want them.” And if the opposition was better at it than he was, he’d be no more dead than if he did nothing.

  Bob held his hand up to shield his eyes as if he was having trouble seeing in the bright light, and he continued to walk slowly toward Shaka Corliss, closing the gap.

  Patsy held Bob’s briefcase and the brightly colored carry-on bag. Corliss turned to Hulk One and waved the revolver at her. “See what’s in them bags that bitch is carryin,’ dummy.” Hulk One frowned, but he stuck his Glock in his belt, took the two bags from Patsy, and shoved her up against the car, trying to out-macho his boss.

  “Touch her again and you’ll walk with a permanent limp.” Linda glared at him.

  The Hulk turned on her, saw the expression on her face, and backed away, keeping one eye on her as he threw the two bags on the car trunk. Popping the top on the briefcase, he saw thick stacks of cash inside and poked his finger around to be sure. He then set the gaudy carry bag on the briefcase, pulled out the bank bag inside, and stuck his nose inside.

  “That the money?” Shaka asked impatiently.

  “Yeah,” the Hulk answered. “They’re both full of cash, and there is a lot of it.”

  Bob didn’t like these odds, but while they were talking to each other and looking at the money, he continued to work himself closer. Now, all he had to do was to figure out a way to get them off-balance.

  Corliss grinned at him and reached inside his jacket pocket. He pulled out his new iPhone 6s and pressed the top listing in Favorites. He put it on speaker and turned up the volume. After four rings, Donatello Carbonari answered. “Yeah, what have you got?”

  “Well, I got that asshole Burke, his two girlfriends, and a couple of big bags of cash,” Corliss crowed, his white-capped teeth flashing under the bright floodlight. “I ain’t counted all of it yet, but…”

  “Then get it done and stop bothering me!”

  “Don’t you want to watch me do him?” Shaka frowned, eager to please, and clearly disappointed. “I can turn on the cell phone video camera and…”

  “No, you fool! I don’t want to get tied into any of that! It’s your job, now finish it,” Carbonari ordered and the line went dead.

  Corliss tried to keep smiling, but Bob could see this was a major rebuke by his boss in front of his two white lackeys. From the angry look in his eyes, it was obvious that Corliss wasn’t happy to be shown up like that, and it stung. Good, Bob thought. That should get him thinking about something else. The last time he saw Corliss, the two Hulks were carrying his prostrate form toward the back door of the Bimini Bay hotel. Bob remembered how solidly he caught Shaka in the face with his elbow. He could still feel it and hear the crunch! He expected to see tape across the bridge of a badly flattened nose and a pair of big, black “raccoon” eyes on either side. It was hard to tell the extent of Shaka Corliss’s damage, however. The alley was dark and he wore those silly, wraparound, black Oakley sunglasses. They would partially cover any bandage and the two black eyes. Nonetheless, Bob knew how hard he hit him, and still felt the crunch of cartilage as his elbow slammed into the bridge of Corliss’s nose. The pain and likely concussion should leave Corliss woozy, seeing double, angry, and out for revenge. That was an edge, but he needed to be closer to use it.

  While Corliss was stocky and musclebound, he was short; and the chrome “Dirty Harry” revolver made him appear even smaller, a point Burke immediately jumped on as he continued to step closer. “Jeez, can you turn off the ‘bling’?” Burke laughed, holding up his left hand as if he were trying to shade his eyes, pointing at the gold chains hanging around Shaka’s neck. “Between the light reflecting off your ugly bald head, the gold, and that flashy, chrome-plated cannon in your hand, I can’t see a damn thing.”

  “You got a real smart mouth, boy! I’m gonna enjoy shuttin’ it permanently.” Corliss raised the revolver and pointed it at Burke’s head.

  “Seriously?” Burke smiled and asked. “A little guy like you might want to pack something a lot smaller than a chrome-plated hog-leg like that. The gun’s so big, it makes you look like a shrimp.”

  “A shrimp? That so, Burke?” Shaka answered, clearly seething inside.

  “Yeah, and I’d bet it knocks you on your fat ass when you fire it.”

  “I guess we’ll see, after it blows big holes in you,” Corliss said as he turned toward the two Hulks. “Grab them two hos. We’ll do ’em all inside.”

  “Who you calling a ho?” Linda glared at him.

  “Shut up,” Hulk One ordered as he pushed his Glock in the back of his belt and stepped toward the two women, eager to show Corliss that he could be a bad ass too. He grabbed Linda and Patsy by their upper arms, thinking he was controlling them.

  Control Linda? That was Big Mistake #1. Bob smiled as he edged closer to Corliss. “Besides, we both know you’re not going to shoot me.”

  “No? Just you wait until we get inside and you’ll see what this thing can do,” Corliss said angrily. “Let’s go, get ’em inside.”

  “Like I said, you can’t shoot me, Shaka. In front of your boys here? You’ll lose all your ‘street creds,’ my man.” Burke said with a smile. “I kicked your ass twice back at the casino, and flattened your nose like a rotten cucumber.” Burke continued moving toward him. “And I’m not some guy you and your two pals can toss off a balcony…”

  “Ah told you, we didn’t do that.”

  “No? Well, it’s your turn. You go
tta kick my ass now, just you and me, straight up and man-to-man. If you don’t, these two crash test dummies are going back to New Jersey and telling the rest of the boys that you’re a wimp — all hard-ass show and no go.”

  He had gotten within three feet of Corliss and glanced at the two Hulks. “Look at them, Shaka,” he said. “Look at their eyes. They’re already laughing at your sorry ass, thinking you’re ‘the short black man with no balls.’ I think that’s what I heard them call you when they carried you out of the parking lot.

  “No, man!” Hulk Two quickly spoke up to deny it. “We didn’t say nothing like that.”

  “Ask Carbonari. He heard what they said,” Burke told him. “That’s why he told them to drag you inside through the back door. He didn’t want anybody to see you. Besides, you’re just gonna end up in one of his oil drums off Brigantine after you get back there, anyway. That is, if he didn’t tell these two to put one in the back of your head as soon as you’re done here.”

  “That ain’t true, we swear!” Hulk One joined in.

  “He’s lying, nobody told us to do nothing like that, Shaka,” Hulk Two quickly agreed.

  “Whadjou tell Carbonari?” Corliss took his eyes off Burke and glared at the two big white men, demanding to know.

  “Nuttin’, man. We never said nuttin’ to him,” Hulk One insisted.

  “Of course that’s what they’d say now,” Bob continued as he took that one last step. “Look at them; they’re laughin’ at you, both of them, ’cause they know you’re a dead man.”

  Corliss’s eyes narrowed as he focused on Hulk One, trying to read his eyes. That was all the edge Bob needed. His left hand flashed out faster than a Bud Frog’s tongue going for a fly. In close quarters like this, the long barrel on a big hog-leg revolver worked to the black man’s disadvantage — it was easy to grab and even easier to get leverage on. Bob grabbed the end of the barrel, twisted, and bent it backward. With Shaka’s index finger trapped inside the trigger guard, the big handgun went off with a deafening Boom! but the 240-grain hollow-point slug ripped harmlessly through the overhead door and into the ceiling.

  Bob was just beginning. He continued to twist, forcing Corliss to his knees until Bob pulled the revolver from his grip as effortlessly as if he were taking a toy from a small child. At the same time, having a firm grip on the Remington’s heavy barrel, Bob swung it around and backhanded Corliss on the side of his head with the pistol butt. The black man’s eyes rolled up in his head and he toppled over sideways onto the concrete pad outside the garage door, out cold.

  Hulk One’s eyes went as round as saucers as he watched his boss collapse onto the concrete. He stood between and behind the two women, his big hands gripping each of them by their upper arms. He had tucked his Glock in the rear waistband of his pants, where it was out of reach and of no use to him now. Not one for quick reactions to begin with, before he could even think of doing anything intelligent, Linda raised her foot and raked the hard, sharp-edged heel of her leather dress shoe down his shinbone. Few things in life can render more pain, than a determined woman in a pair of hard, leather-heeled shoes. The Hulk screamed as his shin was suddenly wracked with pain. Without waiting, Linda raised her leg again and drove her heel down onto the instep of his foot, sending him hopping up and down on the other leg. As he did, she grabbed the Glock from the rear waistband of his pants, swung it around, and struck him on the back of his head with its steel butt plate. Like his boss, Hulk One was out cold before he hit the floor.

  Apparently, things had been moving way too fast for Hulk Two’s pea brain to absorb. Wide-eyed, he finally reacted by turning and trying to point his Glock at Burke. Ellie was holding the big, ugly cat in her arms. Before Hulk Two could think about what to do, Ellie whispered in the cat’s ear, “Go get ’em, Crookshanks!” She stepped forward and threw the cat at the Hulk. She had become a pretty good basketball player, used both of her arms, and stepped into it, like a perfect two-handed “push” shot in gym class — out and up from the chest.

  Even though Crookshanks had spent most of his pampered existence as a fat house cat, Linda’s sister was one of those cat people who did not believe in declawing them. It wasn’t fair to the cat, she said, which proved to have been an exceptionally good decision. Between the loud gunshot and being tossed around like a gym ball, Crookshanks was thoroughly pissed and ready to take it out on someone. He screeched and howled as he found himself flying through the air. Still, cats have a surprisingly well-developed sense of balance and excellent defensive instincts. With his paws out in front of him and claws fully extended, his legs were a blur as they clawed the air. Somehow, Crookshanks managed to right himself, just before he landed on the big goon’s chest. Like a runaway chainsaw, his claws dug in and found traction as he ran up the Hulk’s chest, across his face and over the top of his head, shredding everything in his path, and sending bits of shirt, blood, and skin flying in all directions.

  The Hulk screamed and stood frozen in the garage doorway, in shock. Wide-eyed, with his hands out and shaking in fear, he gave no further thought to Shaka, Burke, or the gun in his hand. It dropped harmlessly on the concrete next to Corliss as he looked down at his chest, now covered with blood, and continued screaming. Apparently, the cat had enough as well. Rather than come back for a victory lap on the goon, Crookshanks landed on his feet behind the Hulk, howled, and took off running down the alley.

  Bob turned toward Ellie and smiled. “Good job!” he told her and then looked at Linda. “You too! Oh, and you can forget about all those bad things I said about Godzilla… I mean Crookshanks. He can stay… assuming he’ll ever want to come back.” Finally, Bob glanced down at Hulk One, whom Linda left lying unconscious on the garage floor at her feet. “And a big high-five to you,” he said to Linda. “I guess you can stay, too.”

  “Really? What makes you think I’ll want to, either?” she shot back.

  “All right, all right, I’m sorry. But let’s get you guys inside,” he told Linda and Patsy. “Put Ellie to bed and try to relax for a few minutes. I’m going to call the cops, but they probably heard that big .44 go off in Wisconsin and are already on the way, so stay loose. They’ll need to talk to you because they’re never going to believe me.”

  “I’m not going to bed until we find Crookshanks,” Ellie stated as she crossed her arms across her chest and scowled.

  “I’ll find him, Sweetie, just as soon as I get rid of this garbage out here. I promise.”

  “You promise?” she asked as her eyes narrowed suspiciously, still not certain.

  “I promise, even if I have to go through the entire neighborhood and look in every garage and trashcan.”

  “All right,” the little girl reluctantly agreed.

  “Okay, where’s the booze?” Linda demanded. “I’m not going to bed until I get a drink. Maybe a couple of tall ones.”

  “And I’ll get you one,” Bob promised, “but wait until the cops leave. I want you sober as a judge when you talk to them.”

  “All right, I’ll go in and put Ellie to bed, but tell them to hurry, because I’m not waiting very long,” she added as she followed Ellie and Patsy inside the house.

  Bob picked up the three handguns and tucked them into his waistband. Shaka Corliss and Hulk One lay on the concrete apron in the garage doorway behind the car. Hulk Two was still standing, wobbling back and forth with his hands on his face, moaning, as he tried to stop the bleeding.

  “Sit down or I’ll call the cat back,” Bob told him, ready to put him down if he didn’t, but that proved unnecessary. The Hulk collapsed on the ground where he was. In any event, he was no longer a threat, so Bob turned away and stepped inside the garage. He remembered there was a box of rags under his workbench, and several shanks of clothesline hanging from hooks on a pegboard. He grabbed them and went back outside.

  “Here,” he told Hulk Two as he threw him the towel. “You’re bleeding all over my alley.” He then turned his attention to Corliss and Hulk One. Flipping th
em onto their stomachs, he quickly hog-tied them, pulling their arms and legs behind them and wrapping the clothesline around their wrists and ankles a half-dozen times. Only then did he begin to relax. He would have added Hulk Two to the pile, but one look told him that wasn’t necessary.

  It had been a long day, and Bob suddenly realized how truly bone tired he was. He pulled a canvas sports chair out of his garage, unfolded it in the middle of the alley under the light, and laid the three handguns on the concrete in front of him. This was a good spot, under the light. It gave him a clear view of the three goons, and the police would have a clear view of him when they arrived. After all, a dark alley wasn’t the best of locations to surprise a bunch of heavily-armed, nervous cops. Finally, he walked over to Shaka Corliss, rifled through his pockets, and pulled out his new iPhone. The last entry under Recent Calls had a New Jersey Area Code. Bob pressed re-dial and didn’t have to wait long.

  “What now?” Donatello Carbonari’s angry voice answered. “Can’t you take care of this, Corliss, or do I have to spell it out for you? What’s wrong now?”

  “Oh, nothing’s wrong, Donnie. I’ve just missed your pleasant voice.”

  There was dead silence at the other end of the line. “Burke? What the hell’s going on?”

  “Oh, nothing really, Shaka just decided to take a nap. So did your offensive line. Want me to send you a picture? Maybe a video? But don’t worry, the Arlington Heights cops will be here in a couple minutes. When they arrive, I’ll give them Shaka’s phone. I’m sure they’ll want to talk to you too.”

  “You’re a dead man!”

  “Donnie, you sound like a broken record. You tried that crap with the Lincoln earlier tonight out on the Expressway. How’d that work out for you? Now, in your infinite stupidity, you sent Shaka and his two pet rocks out here to Chicago for another ass kicking. They got here quick, too. I'll bet there’s a nice company jet parked around here somewhere, isn’t there? That should be easy to trace through FAA records, and the Feds have a nasty habit of confiscating things like that, don't they?”