For Everything a Reason

by Paul Cave

  Presley Perkins followed the tight channel of buildings and arrived once again at Moses Prey’s hideout. He rapped against the steel door. Like earlier, the small opening slid open and a set of eyes appeared framed by the darkness on the other side.

  “I’m here to see Moses again,” Perkins said.

  The eyes blinked a couple of times, as if their owner was trying to figure out something of a complicated nature. “Wait there.”

  Presley huffed like a child, reluctant to play the same waiting game twice in one day. The eyes returned almost as quickly as they’d left and the deadbolt from the other side slid open with a muffled squeal.

  The door opened to reveal Timothy’s bulk. “Moses is busy with another client.”

  “But I brought more money – look,” Presley whined. He dug deep, withdrawing two handfuls of cash.

  Earlier, after his escapades in Central Park, Presley had visited a small backstreet pawnbroker. Having already emptied the bag of its contents, including a purse with fifty dollars tucked neatly inside, he presented it to the broker as an unwanted Christmas gift.

  The broker’s eyebrows had lifted. “You’re a bit late for swapping presents.”

  “I’m a busy man,” Perkins had replied.

  “Looks like a lady’s bag to me?” the broker said.

  “Who the hell are you, the fashion police?” Perkins scolded.

  The broker had examined the handbag, muttering under his breath as he did so, and had eventually offered thirty bucks for it. Knowing that the bag was worth at least ten times that amount, Perkins had snatched the measly sum out of the thief’s hands and stormed out of the store.

  Now, Timothy stepped back to allow Presley entrance. “I guess he could fit you in.”

  “Thanks,” Presley said, with mock sincerity.

  He made the same trip as he’d done that afternoon, the bleak emptiness of the building even more depressing now that it was illuminated by the unforgiving harshness of fluorescent lights. The discarded balls of crushed foil glittered against the darkness of the floor, radiantly, as if each ball had actually trapped the soul of its user inside.

  They climbed the single flight of steps together, and then Timothy led Presley to Moses’ room of business. The door was already open, and voices could be heard coming from within: Prey’s high-pitched squeal and two others, deep and threatening.

  They entered to see Moses Prey handing over a shotgun to a young black thug. Hands that looked as if they could break skulls in two took the weapon gently, like a father holding his newborn child for the first time.

  The black kid’s companion turned to see both Timothy and Perkins enter. “Hey – who’s the white hobo motherfucker?”

  The shotgun holder turned also, his face flipping from wonder to worry instantly. “What’s this?” he demanded, spinning the weapon in his hands.

  “Now gentlemen,” Moses said. “This is just another client – like you two, here to invest in his future.” He flashed them his most enigmatic smile - a mouthful of rot and decay.

  “Fool smells like my ass,” the companion said.

  The other laughed. “Yeah Bro, you been takin’ a bath in horseshit or what?”

  The young thugs broke into laughter, revealing gold-capped teeth and silver fillings.

  Perkins just stood there, unwilling to engage them, simply eager to pay for his merchandise and then get out.

  The shotgun holder misunderstood his silence as fear. “No worry, Bro, we ain’t gonna bite, we not too fond of horseshit anyhow.”

  They cracked up again, Timothy joining in this time. Only Moses stayed quiet, his eyes shifting quickly from one face to the next. With enough weapons to fight World War III laid out before him, he watched nervously, ready to intervene if the situation got out of hand. Then, Moses did something that was completely out of character and without sense. Understanding that events would run smoother if dealing with just the one client, he reached out to grasp the Derringer’s two casings, which stood upright on the table.

  “Here,” he said, tossing them over to Perkins. “You can sort payment out with Timothy.”

  Presley caught them in his hand. Again, he was surprised by the size of the casings, heavy too.

  And this was how Moses had made his mistake: by permitting a client to take hold of the ammunition, whilst in possession of the weapon, allowing both to come together, instead of Timothy handling the rounds until all were safely outside.

  “Gentlemen,” Moses said, gathering the attention of the gang-members to him. He spread his arms like a preacher ready to deliver his sermon. “Let’s get back to business, shall we?” They turned back to Moses, the dishevelled fat guy behind them instantly forgotten. Moses continued to rant, explaining how all good pilgrims should come and visit this Mecca, this Holy Land.

  Presley withdrew the Derringer and clicked open the loader. He slipped both rounds inside and then clicked the weapon shut. The brief noise that resulted pulled at the group’s attention.

  Moses stopped ranting, his oversight now apparent to him. Timothy stared at the small weapon, his similarly small brain unable to register just what amount of damage the weapon could do. And the two black kids burst into rancorous roars of laughter at the pitiful pistol in Presley’s oversized hand.

  “Dude is packin’ real heat there, Bro,” one mocked.

  The other, who now had a handful of green bills, nodded animatedly. “Hope that’s all his fat white ass is packin’.”

  “Maybe he’s over-compensating in size, ‘cos his dick’s too small,” the other retorted.

  This set them both off again.

  And that was it. Something inside of Presley Perkins snapped. Having once flirted with some of the most powerful figures of the criminal underworld, rubbing shoulders with made men, feared men, real hard men, and sharing in the fear and respect that their actions had instilled into others, Presley just stared back at them, no longer willing to suffer the indignity of their ridicule, and sick now of the cowardly existence he’d been forced to endure.

  “Hey, Bro, we just jokin’ with ya,” one snickered.

  “Yeah, we don’t mean to pound against your fat white ass,” the other said.

  They broke into laughter again, fuelling Presley’s rage with fire. The words came out of Presley’s mouth before his brain had time to catch up. “Why don’t you shut your big black lips?” he said, his whole body trembling with rage.

  The laughter ceased immediately.

  The thugs froze, too shocked to speak at first. In the next second their mouths burst open and a blue streak of expletives poured out. Their insults came so fast and so many that Presley could only catch the occasional single word or short phrase as they beat against his ears.

  “Fat ass!”

  “Motherfucker!”

  “Honky bitch!”

  “Hairy Moby Dick look-alike-whore!”

  Finally, the young blood with all the cash stepped forward and threw a crumpled bill towards Presley’s face. “Go take a bath, bitch,” he ordered.

  The crushed dollar caught Presley unexpectedly in his right eye. Already sore from the pepper spray, the contact unleashed a searing jag of fresh pain. Instinctively, he reached up to rub at the sudden pain found there, using the same hand that held the pistol.

  The kid holding the shotgun misunderstood the abrupt raising of the Derringer as a threat. He panicked and brought his own weapon up, aiming it directly at Presley’s midriff.

  Moses Prey had just enough time to cry, “Wait!” before the room turned instantly sour with a mixture of gun-smoke and guts.

  The kid with the shotgun pulled his weapon tight. His face flipped between rage, fear, and then back to rage again as he pulled the trigger. A hollow clank followed as the trigger fell against an empty chamber.

  Too late.

  Presley caught the act of aggression through tear-filled eyes. He jabbed his arm out, levelling the Derringer straight, and fired. In such a small space the noise sounded
like the burst of thunder. The .357 calibre bullet caught the kid across the forehead, tearing flesh and bone as it went. Scraping across the hard surface of the youth’s skull, the bullet changed direction, ever so slightly, and hit Moses Prey flush in the face. The dealer’s face imploded, folding inwards instantly, before reforming into a macabre portrait of bright reds and brain matter, as it spattered against the wall behind.

  The black kid went down heavily, his skull split into two. His pal bolted towards the door.

  Timothy’s handgun was already out and, as the kid rushed by, he shot him at point blank range. Three holes the size of fists burst from the kid’s chest. Then, in a heap, the kid skittered across the floor. He finished half-in and half-out of the doorway. A brief shower of green bills fell all about them.

  For a second, both Presley and Timothy stared at each other. Presley’s gun wavered. Timothy took a quick look towards the body of his boss, and then whined hysterically.

  “You fucker! You killed Moses!”

  “Wait!” Perkins offered.

  “You gonna have to pay for that,” Timothy cried.

  Presley saw the gun draw towards him. He ducked instinctively and dived for the exit. A chunk of masonry the size of his head exploded above him. In the next instant, he was back in the corridor and running for his life.

  He tore through the passageway, expecting a bullet to rip though his back at any moment. He reached the stairs landing before the first shot came. A barrage of bullets peppered the wall to his right. He dropped to all fours and skidded to a halt, as another hail tore the wooden banister at his side into a thousand pieces. Presley chanced a look behind him. Timothy was at the other end of the passageway, coming fast now, having traded his handgun for a fully-automatic assault rifle.

  Presley scrambled forward, and then took the stairs on his front, sliding down quickly like a kid would do on his belly. Wooden splinters ripped through his jacket as he careened downwards. He almost lost the Derringer halfway down, as it slipped from his hands, but, having already succumbed to the laws of gravity, it bounced and clattered to the foot of the stairs. Presley snatched it up quickly once he’d arrived there. He jumped to his feet and then took the ground floor passageway at full speed.

  With half the distance covered, he heard the rat-tat-tat of bullets from behind, and then felt them explode into the floor directly at his heels. Changing direction, he threw himself into one of the empty rooms.

  “Where you hiding?” Timothy yelled from the hallway.

  Presley heard the boots stop, followed by loud gunfire, somewhere behind him. Frantically, he searched the room he now found himself trapped in. Just a few pieces of rotten furniture filled the room: an old sofa, with its guts hanging out of its underbelly, lay to one side, and a round table with multiple scars scratched into its top was propped along the wall closest to him.

  He tried to visualise how far the main door was from his current location. At least ten yards, he realised with sickening certainty. Would he have chance to distract his hunter and then make a break for freedom? Not a chance! The heavy-duty bolt that held the door tight would take precious seconds to slide free, giving Timothy all the time he needed.

  The words, “You’re gonna pay!” echoed around him.

  He pushed himself against the wall. The wall, now little more than a barrier of mush, almost gave way under the additional strain of his weight. Holes dotted it at irregular intervals like ulcerous sores, black and raw, and the plaster around them was flaking away like sheets of dead skin. He glanced back at the table and sofa, and then towards the wall again.

  An idea formed – the only one available to him.

  He reached over to grab the table, dragging it over to him. Another clatter of bullets sounded. Now, as the room beyond was torn apart and, under the cover of fire, Presley hammered furiously against the wall. With little effort he punched through into the next room, ripping open a large tear. Wasting no time at all, he opened out the hole large enough to fit through. Then, pulling the table, he slotted it into the gap. Now, hopefully, his escape route would go unnoticed at a glance. If not? He could kiss his aforementioned fat ass goodbye.

  Heavy footsteps thundered towards him. They moved with more caution, now that Timothy sensed he was closer to his prey. Presley laid himself as flat as he could, hugging the floor with his hands over his head. Another hail of bullets cut the room up adjacent to him, some punching holes through the wall at his side in an explosion of wet plaster and wooden splinters. The assault lasted just a few seconds, but the damage was devastating. Half the wall lay in ruins, allowing Presley to see clearly into the next room. Timothy stood there with white plaster dust and grime covering his face, and the assault rifle at his side expelled a weary breath of gun smoke.

  For one terrible second, Presley thought their eyes met through the remains of the wall, but, in the next moment, Timothy turned on his heels to re-enter the hallway.

  Presley got to his knees, pushing the table out of the way as he did so. He crawled through the hole and then scrambled deeper into the next room. Belying his size, he skipped soundlessly to the doorway and cautiously stuck his head out.

  Timothy was at the next opening, the rifle against his shoulder.

  Presley held his breath.

  Timothy entered.

  There was a deafening clatter as bullets ripped their way over every inch of the room. Steeling himself, Presley dashed to the next doorway, the one that Timothy filled, and brought the small Derringer up behind the heavy’s ear.

  “Move, and I’ll blow your goddamn brains out,” he warned.

  Timothy froze.

  “Drop the weapon,” Presley ordered.

  Timothy remained still for just a second. Then something changed in his stance. He became more rigid. His breathing stopped and, with sickening dread, Presley knew he was about to do no such thing. The muzzle of the assault rifle began to turn in a wide arc. Time seemed to slow, everything happening at only half the speed it should. The weapon continued to come, and at the same time, Timothy started to spin away from the Derringer.

  Presley heard his own warped voice cry, “No!” an instant before all hell broke loose.

  The rifle started to tear the wall up at Presley’s side, huge chunks of plaster and wood and masonry filling the air with a thick, clogging cloud. Timothy’s lips parted and a fearless roar escaped from deep within his throat.

  In a blind panic, Presley squeezed off a shot, his last, and then rushed towards the sealed doorway. He almost lost his footing, sliding surprisingly too fast as he stepped on an empty glass bottle. Somehow, he kept upright, and in the next second his fingers scratched frantically at the deadbolt. The hairs at the nape of his neck bristled with fear, and his heart threatened to give, but his fingers continued to grapple with the bolt. With a sharp scrape, the bolt eventually gave and, in the next instant, Presley was outside. He fell to his knees, his feet finally tripping over themselves, and he went down hard.

  The steel doorway stood ajar – corridor empty.

  Timothy hadn’t followed, nor fired a single shot towards the exit. Presley remained frozen where he’d fallen, but he felt safer with the main sidewalk only ten yards away from him.

  Another quick look towards the corridor confirmed it was empty. Presley climbed to his feet, slowly, the Derringer tight in his hand. Had anyone even heard the shootout over the general noise of the city? There were no tenants, or commercial businesses – Moses’ not included – around the immediate vicinity, and the noise of rushing traffic would have drowned out any sounds of gunfire easily. And when you got right down to it, would anyone have cared, anyway?

  Presley took a single step back towards the doorway, believing now that somehow Timothy had been stopped in his tracks. His heart still pounded in his chest, but less painfully so, and a cold sweat had broken out long his spine, making his shirt cling to his back. His attention returned to the sidewalk. The clever thing would be to get as far away as he could. Unfort
unately, the present situation he found himself in dictated otherwise.

  His original plan had been to come here, to buy protection, in the event that he was cornered again. Now, the weapon in his hand was empty, pathetic, and of no real use. The sounds of sirens reached his ears, but they were distant and harmless. No cops were on their way to arrest him, because nobody cared about this part of the neighbourhood.

  He stepped back inside the doorway, keeping his eyes peeled to the open room he’d escaped from. Had Timothy simply given up? Presley reached inside to take an empty soda bottle. Simultaneously, he threw it into the corridor and readied himself for flight. The bottle landed with a crunch of broken glass.

  Nothing.

  Presley took another step inside. He made his way along the corridor, his back pressed against the wall, keeping one eye on the room, the other, on his escape route. The last few yards were the hardest. He imagined gunfire would erupt at any moment.

  It didn’t.

  Taking one final deep breath, Presley stepped into the doorway.

  The room was empty.

  Timothy was nowhere to be found.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Detective Tyler stared at her open notebook. A short list of details had been scribbled down in untidy handwriting, some of which had already been struck-out, Joseph Ruebins amongst them.

  “So what have we got?” Carter asked.

  Both detectives sat at Carter’s desk, awaiting the autopsy report on Henry Jones to come through, along with the provisional findings from the Crime Scene Unit.

  “We’ve got surveillance recordings from the hospital – about thirty-six man-hours worth of CCTV,” Tyler began. “We’ve also got a long list of names of employees taken from St Mary’s. And patients – Joseph Ruebins included.”

  Carter asked, “Who’s analysing the surveillance recordings?”

  “I’ve got Audio Visual looking through them. Told them to pay attention to the cameras positioned within the corridors first. Too much traffic around the entrances. It would have been mayhem, what with the R.T.A. and all.”