Gloves Off

by Gareth Spark

  By B R Stateham

  He walked briskly, head down, and used the brim of his fedora to shield his face from the cold wind. The collar of his heavy trench coat was pulled up over his ears and his hands were in the coat pockets. The heavy feeling of an approaching winter's storm hung in the air. The wind, cold and filled with tiny ice pellets, were slanting down and toward him, coming out of the north.

  It was a horrible night.

  Cold. Frozen.

  So cold no one dared to confront the darkness and the wind.

  Except him. Except his dumb ass.

  Apartment buildings rose up around him like taciturn giants with a thousand bright yellow eyes looking down upon him, severely. The street curbs, lined with cars and pickup trucks, looked forgotten. Abandoned. Empty cold steel and glass condemned to suffer through another night of bitter cold. Yet here he was, head down, ploughing into the wind, hurrying along as rapidly as his short, spindly legs would allow, hoping . . . hoping . . . he'd live through the night.

  Not that he wasn't afraid. On the contrary! He was terrified! He knew they would be coming after him. He knew they had orders to kill him. Somehow . . . somehow . . . he had to find a way to live long enough to see tomorrow's sunrise. If he could just get to the DA's office and tell the district attorney everything he knew, then maybe, just maybe, the DA would stash him away somewhere where no one could find him. Maybe.

  Dammit. It wasn't his fault! He didn't leak a word to anyone about the caper! But they were coming after him. The person who really screwed up ratted him out to the boss! Danny Arlito didn't know how to keep his mouth shut! But Danny was the boss's nephew and the boss believed anything Danny told him. Anything!

  A contract had been put out for him. He heard Smitty . . . Smitty, for god's sakes, had been paid his thirty pieces of silver to track him down and eliminate him.

  Jesus Christ! He knew he didn't have a fucking chance. Not with Smitty hunting him down.

  Hurry. Hurry! Just around the corner and then up the stairs to his apartment to pack a bag or two before slipping off to some sleazy motel for the night. If he could make to his apartment. . . .

  Movement.

  Just the merest flash of deep black moving against black. Looking up quickly he stopped in his tracks, mouth open, eyes wide. Smitty! Smitty standing at the corner of the building all in black gripping a big, ugly looking revolver and silencer screwed onto the end of its barrel stretched down the side of his leg! Standing facing him, dressed in a black trench coat and a snapped down, narrow brimmed fedora, partially hiding has face.

  "Smitty! Smitty . . . please! I swear to god I . . ."

  "Move to your right," the distinctive snarl of a loud whisper slammed into his ears.

  "Smitty, let me explain . . . please!" he screamed seeing the assassin's gun hand coming up to point the end of the silencer toward him.

  "Move! Now!"

  He whimpered, gloved hands in front of him in some useless gesture to protect him from the bullets he knew were coming and stepped to his right.

  Phaft! Phaft! Phaft!

  Three shots. He screamed. His legs buckled, he dropped to his knees and gripped his chest blindly searching for the bullet holes in an effort to stop to flow of his own blood seeping out of his body. He couldn't breathe. He felt hot liquid running down his leg. Everything was turning white . . . he was dying!

  Roughly, someone grabbed him by his coat collar and jerked him to his feet. A gloved hand slapped hard across his pudgy cheeks, with blows filled with pain. With enough pain to make his eyes water. Enough to make his vision and senses return to him.

  He found himself staring into the partially hidden face of Smitty.

  "Around the corner is my car," the hiss for a voice spoke as he lifted a gloved hand up with car keys dangling. "Get in and drive. On the passenger seat is a sealed envelope full of money. It's yours. So is the car. Get out of town and don't come back. And Thompson, one other thing. Don't even think about running to the district attorney and blabbing to him. Or the next time you see me, you will be a dead man. Understand?"

  The fat man with the shaking hands and bright red cheeks on his pudgy face couldn't speak. All he could do was vigorously nod his head. Smitty's hidden dark eyes glared at him for a few seconds and then let go his grip on the man's collar. Tilting his head toward the building corner, he watched the pudgy little mob accountant scurry away. Seconds later, a black CTS Cadillac, red stop lights flashing wildly, roared down the street and disappeared into the now heavy falling snow.

  The snow fell furiously and heavily, already almost half covering the three dead men he had drilled in the forehead with his shots. Walking up to the nearest one he bent down and quickly searched the man's pockets. Pulling out a set of car keys he stood up and started to walk away. One of the men groaned and stirred. Raising his gun up fractionally he pulled the trigger.

  Phaft!

  There was no more groaning. No more stirring.

  Now to fix the problem and save an innocent man's life.

  Two hours later Danny Arlito, nephew to mob boss Donnie Arlito opened the men's room door of the night club he owned, paused, and cupped a hand round his mouth to shout to his friends he'd be right back. The noise coming from the club dance floor was throbbing. Thunderous. Ear splitting. Closing the door he turned and walked to the stand of six urinals lined against the wall and noted the open window high up on the wall. The cold air, refreshing actually from the gruelling sweat bath of the club outside, swirled around in the bathroom. Unzipping his trousers he spread his feet and started to do his business when pain. Vast amounts of pain exploded up the back of his leg like molten metal being poured onto him and made him buckle legs and stagger back from the urinal.

  He screamed in agony as he looked around and down at his leg and noted the handle of a switch-blade stick out of his leg. No one on the club floor heard anything above the throbbing music pulsating the walls of the entire building. Looking up he saw the black form of Smitty standing behind him, the low brim of the black fedora he was wearing, hiding the upper half of his face.

  On the man's face was a wicked, frightening, smirk of pleasure.

  He turned, gritting his teeth from the jabbing pain in his leg, and threw a haymaker swing at his attacker. Smitty, slapping the blow away as if he was slapping away a lazy fly, stepped forward, grabbed the hair on the back of Danny's head, and slammed the Danny's face hard into the mirror above the sink. He slammed it twice into the mirror, burying fragments of glass into Danny's forehead in the process.

  Again no one outside on the dance room floor heard a thing.

  Half unconscious, bleeding heavily from the forehead, the knife still in his leg, Danny felt himself being jerked to one side. Jerked close to the smiling Smitty. Close to the man's lips.

  "You have just one chance to get out of this alive. Just one!" Smitty's harsh whisper filled Danny's right ear. "Tell your uncle the truth! Tell him you were the one that blabbed too much about something. Maybe Donnie might forgive you. Maybe not. Don't confess and I promise you, you won't live to see next Thursday!"

  The next blow folded Danny Alito up like a wet paper towel and dropped him onto the smelly floor of the restroom unconscious. Seconds later, opening his eyes, he found himself alone. High above on the far wall the window was sealed shut. Looking down at his leg he noticed the knife was gone. Blood covered his leg and filled his shoe. Blood also covered his face. Using the sinks to pull himself to his feet he washed the blood from his face, dried it off with a paper towel, then turned and hobbled out of the restroom.

  Two days later Smitty heard the news. Danny Alito was out of the country. Taking a long vacation in Italy recovering from some mysterious injuries he recently acquired. Word was Danny might not come back. Apparently Danny's uncle was not happy with his nephew. Not happy at all.

  And oh . . . the contract out on that fat accountant? Cancelled. Cancelled, but strangely it was said Smitty got paid his full price nevertheless.
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br />   Interesting.

  B.R. Stateham is a sixty-three year old curmudgeon and writer who, like all the rest of the writers in the world, struggles along in anonymity. Eh, that's life!

  By Brian Panowich

  I hit send. It rings. He answers.

  "Do you have my guns?"

  "I have your car. Whatever's inside the car is none of my business. I'm calling to tell you that you can have it all back."

  "You steal from me and now you want to give it back?"

  "I didn't steal from you. I repo'ed the car; that's what I do. The Charger was registered to one Eric Talbott. He hasn't made a payment on it in over nine months. The bank called my boss, and he sent me to pick up the car. That's it. That's the truth."

  "You're telling me that my associate, Mr. Talbott, was in a position to have his vehicle repossessed? And that you had no idea what you were taking from me? You want me to believe that shit?"

  "That's what happened, sir."

  "What's your name, kid?"

  Kid, this asshole calls me. I'm damn near forty years old.

  "Emmett."

  "And how did you get my number, Emmett?"

  "Your boy, Eric, left his cell phone in the car. It rang a few times while I was driving. I saw one of the missed calls which said Leon Nash and I immediately knew I'd stepped into something above my pay grade. I called hoping we could work this out."

  A pause on the line.

  "You're telling me my fuckin' name was in E's cell phone?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Another pause.

  "You know who I am?"

  "I mean no disrespect, Mr. Nash, but who doesn't."

  "Well, I tell you what, Emmett. Why don't you tell me where you are, and I'll send a few of my people down there to collect the car."

  "Once again I mean no disrespect, sir, but I know how this kind of shit can play out. You send some goons down here to collect your merch, they put a bullet in me, dump my body in a wet foundation somewhere, then tell you I never made the meet. They make some coin off your hardware, you blame me, and we both get fucked. I'm not going out like that."

  "I trust my people."

  "Really? I wouldn't put a lot of stock in your guys if they are anything like the dumb-fuck that landed us in this situation."

  "Listen, kid..."

  "No. It's gotta be you. I want to give you this shit and bad as you want to get it back, but it's got to be you."

  "You got a hefty sack of balls, kid."

  "No, sir. They're just well loved by the little lady at home, and I want to make sure they get back to her in working condition."

  Another pause.

  "Who did you say you worked for?"

  "I didn't, but it's Ace's Auto and Repossession Service."

  "Stay by the phone. I'll hit you back."

  The line went dead.

  ###

  Leon Nash took out kneecaps and bashed in noses as local muscle for bigger sharks like 'Z' Williams and The German. At least that’s what he did until all three got popped on a Midtown bank job that went south. Luckily nobody got killed, but all three went down for armed robbery, sentenced to thirty years each in USP Atlanta Federal Prison. That was three years ago. Now Leon's black ass is peddling high end gats down Peachtree Boulevard while his bosses endure three hots and a cot behind cement walls and razor wire. Only one way he could be out that fast, but that wasn't my business.

  The phone rang and I answered.

  "Okay kid, you check out. You throw the party and I'll be there, but it's gotta be right now."

  "I'll be at Brownwood Ave where it crosses the park in one hour. Look for the skinny white guy covered in tattoos. You can't miss me."

  "You better hope I don't. So far, you've played this pretty smart, so I'm giving you this shot at making it right. But, kid, if you get stupid and I smell anything going sideways, I'm gonna do you slow. You get me, Emmett Cobb?"

  He did check me out.

  "I got it, Mr Nash."

  I hung up.

  ###

  One hour later, a huge black Escalade pulls up behind Eric Talbott's recently repossessed Dodge Charger. Time to shit or get off the pot. Three people get out; two gorillas and the man himself. I'll be dipped in shit. He showed up.

  I crushed a Camel Light out under my boot.

  "I told you he was a fuckin' greaser, boss. Nothing to worry about. Look at him."

  The second gorilla joined his buddy in underestimating me. I let him.

  "I don't see Talbott."

  "And you won't...ever again. I trust you left everything in the car as it was?"

  "I didn't touch a thing, Mr. Nash."

  "Well then why don't you beat it before I change my mind. Maybe let Daryl blow a hole through that hokey-ass straw hat."

  Daryl pulled up his windbreaker to show me the massive hammerless Glock 17 shoved in his waistband. He smiled a gorilla smile.

  I removed my hat and held it with both hands.

  "Mr. Nash, it's not quite that easy. I still need to keep the car."

  "Excuse me?"

  "If I don't turn in the car, I don't get paid and I really can't afford to miss a paycheck these days. Times are tight. I'm sure you understand that."

  "I understand that I should have went with my guts and popped you from the jump, instead of letting you suck up this much air. You stole from me boy! And now you want to get mouthy, too? Daryl, show this motherfucker how we do things."

  He waited.

  "Daryl, I said show this mother..."

  "Daryl and that other goon are too scared to move right now, Leon, due to those little red lights on their chests."

  Both gorillas were frozen, staring at Leon like helpless little girls.

  "Those lights are connected to two Barrett M98 bolt action sniper rifles. You should know the make. The trunk here is full of them."

  "You son of a bitch! You think you got juice? You think I don't know who you are? You’re one of Jack Parson's boys. Jack would never cross me. You clear this shit with him? I bet not. When this is over I'm gonna take my time on you! I'm gonna..."

  I raised my left hand six inches and Daryl's shoulder exploded into pink mist.

  It spun him completely around.

  He screamed.

  "That's Jack saying hello. My buddy, Kenny, is out there too, in case you were thinking of name dropping him too. Now listen up ladies, this is what’s going to happen. The big retard that isn't bleeding is going to collect everybody's guns and cell phones. Then he’s gonna throw them into the back seat of this Charger. Next, I'm going to pop the trunk and let you get all your shit out of it. The guns now belong to you two jack-offs. Go make a few bucks and get Daryl's shoulder looked at. It looks pretty bad."

  "You two fuckers better not listen...”

  "And don't worry about Mr. Nash here coming to look for you. I promise you that ain't gonna happen. Do you understand what's going on here?

  They nodded.

  "So get it done."

  They did.

  "Who are you working for?"

  "I told you already, Ace's Auto and Repossession Service."

  "Bullshit, man, be straight. 'Z' hire you to do me? Or that German piece of shit? I got money. I'll give you twice what they're paying."

  "Nah, I hope those two pricks rot in prison for the shit they've done to this city. I'd never take a dime from them, or you. Daryl, tell your girlfriend to hurry the fuck up."

  He did, and they hurried. Within seconds they were packed up and ready to roll.

  "Take that shit and get the hell out of Atlanta."

  Two gorillas in the wind.

  Two red lights now on Leon, center mast.

  "Kneel down."

  "What?"

  "Kneel. Down."

  "I'm in the fuckin' street here!"

  "And you're gonna die in the street."

  "Why? Who are you? What the hell did I do to you?"

  "Jack...?"

  "No, no! Wait, okay."

/>   He knelt.

  I squatted to face him.

  "Why are you doing this?"

  "Because of the girl."

  "What girl?"

  "One week before that piss poor attempt of a bank robbery that landed your fat ass in prison, you let a nineteen year old girl die on a piss stained sofa in one of your flops. You snatched her out of a club in Five Points, and force fed her a needle. You brutalized her for weeks. You passed her around like a goddamn party favor. Do you remember her?

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Z was into that kinda shit, not me.”

  “Really? Did Z take a Sharpie and write Leon’s Toilet on her forehead?”

  Silence.

  “You shouldn’t sign your work, you dumb fuck. You stole everything from her, everything that made her human. And when you were done, you pumped her full of poison and left her to die in her own filth."

  "Let me guess. This girl? She your woman? Your sister? Shit man, I just joined in the party. I never did anything dem bitches didn't want..."

  The left jab I gave him came fast. It shut him up, and took out a few teeth.

  "She wasn't my sister, or my woman. I didn't know her at all. I just happened to be the one to find her. The one who held her while she died. It took some work just to find out her name. Do you want to know what it was?"

  "Fushh you!"

  Another jab. More teeth. More blood.

  "Francine. Francine White from Salt Lake City. She came here to go to Georgia Tech. She wanted to be an Engineer. She didn't even get to start classes."

  "Juss anover junkie whore!"

  "No. She was somebody's daughter. A human being. I don't expect you to understand what that means. You're the farthest thing from human I know. I watched the life drain out of that girl and I knew I'd find you. You and your buddies. I knew I'd kill you like dogs in the street. But then you botched that bank job and got yourselves arrested. Prison saved your life. Well, it saved the other two. You decided to be a rat and take your chances out here. I wasn't about to let you do to someone else what you did to Francine, but you were holed up pretty good. Lucky for me you're stupid and you employ stupid people. It was pretty easy to flush you out."