Troubleshooter

by Austin Camacho

  When he heard the shot, Hannibal drew his pistol so quickly it made Sal blink. After only a second’s hesitation, Hannibal raced down the hall.

  “Sarge!” Hannibal shouted over his shoulder. “If any of them gets any closer, or goes for a weapon, shoot the white boy.”

  Seconds later Hannibal stood against the wall on the left side of the basement door. Looking around it, he saw Ray on the floor, crawling slowly toward the hall. A second and third shot blasted over Ray’s body and into the floor.

  “Back off, man!” Hannibal shouted. “Can’t…can’t we talk about this? It ain’t worth getting shot.” In answer, the shooter turned the gun as far in Hannibal’s direction as he could and fired again. This time his bullet split the doorjamb leading to the hall.

  “Shit!” Hannibal spat. It was never easy or fun to fire a gun at another human being. For Hannibal, it required an extra effort to drop certain built in safeguards, as if a version of the gun’s safety catch existed inside his mind. Still, he knew that once the decision was made, hesitation could be deadly. He extended his left arm to its full length and squeezed off one round. The blast rocked his ears. A curse came through the kitchen window, and the gun dropped into the sink. From where he stood, Hannibal could have only hit the man’s forearm. Leaning back against the wall, he slid to the floor, considering what one of his one hundred eighty grain, forty millimeter hollowpoints would do on its way through an arm.

  “That’s one asshole won’t be back.” It was Ray’s voice, jubilant.

  “Cat started in on this side ain’t likely to stop by again either.” That was Quaker, sounding like he had won something.

  Taking a minute to dredge up a smile of his own, Hannibal holstered his pistol, pushed himself to his feet and trotted to the front door. He found Sarge standing behind his desk, holding the shotgun at waist level, barrel forward. Virgil stood on his right, Timothy on his left, both holding their sticks at the ready.

  “Hit the bricks,” Hannibal said, standing even with his team. “I brought an army with me this time and we mean to stay. Go tend your wounded and get on with your life, idiot.”

  Sal pointed a fist at Hannibal’s face, his index finger stabbing forward. “This ain’t over, stud. Before it is, it’s going to be me and you.”

  “Then let’s get it on right now,” Timothy said, jumping forward with his baton raised overhead. Hannibal was too surprised to react in time but Sarge’s left hand snapped out, catching the back of Timothy’s shirt. Timothy was jerked backward, and Sal’s head snapped back just quickly enough to let the club’s tip whistle by. Before it was quite past Sal’s head, his two bodyguards had their revolvers out.

  Hannibal had drawn a tenth of a second faster than either of them but instead of firing, he stopped with finger tense on the trigger and his muzzle pointed at the bridge of Sal’s nose.

  “Hold it,” Hannibal barked, his eyes on Sal’s. “Everybody freeze. We don’t want a fight nobody can win.” Both guns on Sal’s side faced Hannibal at first. Then Hannibal saw realization dawn on Ox’s face, and the bodyguard shifted his point of aim to Sarge’s face. Sarge’s barrel was already pointed at Ox.

  From there, no one moved. The four men could have been mistaken for a museum diorama, except that museum exhibits don’t sweat. A car passing in front of the house sounded like a freight train in Hannibal’s ears. His heartbeat was out of control but his breathing had not yet caught up. He saw the ghost of terror behind Sal’s eyes, but the two bodyguards showed no hint of fear. He had no doubt that they were quite ready to go down if they could take the opposition with them. Hate blazed from Timothy’s eyes, but Virgil and Sarge looked less anxious to press the battle. Hannibal licked dry lips and considered the mess that would result if all four guns went off at once.

  “This isn’t the time or place for a showdown,” Hannibal said through a ragged breath. Maintaining eye contact with Sal, he slowly lowered his automatic. Sal glanced at his two companions, who put their guns away just as slowly. Sal looked at Hannibal with renewed malice and no evident respect.

  “Not the time now, maybe,” Sal said in a low, even tone, “but that time’s coming.” As if making a point, he turned his back on Hannibal and walked down the steps. A beat or two behind him, Ox and Petey backed away three or four steps before they too turned and left. When they reached the sidewalk the house seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. Sarge finally moved around the desk to push the door shut.

  “Lot of mouth on that boy,” Sarge said, “And this one too,” indicating Timothy.

  “We had a chance to do it right now.” Timothy swung his stick down sharply, as if he could see a head falling under it. “We should have killed the mother while we had the chance.”

  “You almost got us all killed,” Hannibal said, slamming his gun into its holster for emphasis. “Didn’t you see those guys? That kind of muscle, they’re bred for loyalty, trained to die protecting their principal. Believe me, I know. We just barely avoided a blood bath with no winners because of your hot West Indian head. Go cool off in the back. And you better get your shit together if you’re going to stay in here with us.”

  Sarge watched Timothy stamp off down the hall like a spoiled child. “Don’t mind saying that had me scared.”

  “May be, but you weren’t alone,” Hannibal said. “And, whether he’d admit it or not, I think Sal got the message this time.”

  “Yeah, the only way that kind ever does,” Ray said, joining the others at the door. “Face it, Paco, we kicked their ass.” Their tension broke into laughter, but no one really felt like celebrating.

  -28-

  TUESDAY

  At five minutes before one Sarge and Quaker stepped out of the right hand flat. Quaker was stretching and yawning as they approached the desk in front of the stairs.

  “Hey fellows,” Hannibal said, shoving a bookmark into his paperback. “It is good to see your ugly faces. I’d like to say I’m sorry that you drew the tough one to four shift on the first night, but…”

  “But that would be a bald faced lie,” Sarge said with a grin. “Now you go on to bed. I know how you young bloods need your rest.”

  “So you taking the front?” Hannibal asked, standing and handing Sarge the shotgun.

  “Quaker’s down the back relieving Ray now,” Sarge said, dropping down onto the stairs behind he desk. “You leave my copy of FHM in the drawer?”

  “Hey, I wouldn’t touch a man’s educational reading,” Hannibal said. “Listen, I’m leaving the kitchen door unlocked so you can get to coffee and snacks.”

  “Okay, buddy. Don’t worry about us. Just go get some sleep.”

  Hannibal nodded good night to Sarge and went back to his new flat. He hung in his front room door long enough to wave a tired arm at Ray who was on his way upstairs. From the way he was dragging his feet, Ray was as ready for some sack time as Hannibal felt. He pushed his door open and turned to go.

  “Hey Hannibal.”

  “Yeah Sarge,” he replied, pausing again at the threshold.

  “This is a really good gig.”

  Hannibal blew out a puff of air in self-derision. “Oh yeah. I got you a chance to live in a shit hole.”

  “Hey, it’s three hots and a cot,” Sarge replied.

  “So was the shelter,” Hannibal said. “And a safe cot at that.”

  “Yeah,” Sarge said, “but that was a handout. I earned my place in this shit hole.”

  “You sure as hell did, Sarge,” Hannibal said, shaking his head, but smiling.

  “So, um,” Sarge allowed a couple of seconds to pass. An embarrassed pause. “Thanks.”

  Hannibal looked up, smiled and gave Sarge a thumbs up before stepping into his apartment and closing the door behind himself. Like the others, he had found his own space there. Ray, Timothy and Virgil had all settled into the top left apartment, the one whose toilet had worked all along. Hannibal, for reasons unknown, had gotten comfortable in the ground floor left side flat. Without thinking, he had
directed the deliverymen to put the refrigerator there. Sarge and Quaker had set up camp across the hall from him because Sarge thought both bottom flats should be occupied.

  Like anything you fight for, Hannibal figured, he was really getting to like the place. A coat of paint, some new flooring, and it could become pretty comfortable. After pulling off his tennis shoes he made his bed in the middle room, the one with a fake mantelpiece. Then he went into the kitchen, got a final cup of coffee, and took it back to his bedroom.

  While sipping from a Styrofoam cup he opened his suitcase on the card table, which he had also moved into his new bedroom. A small lamp beside the suitcase cut out sharp shadow silhouettes and tossed them around the room like art deco paste-on decorations. Even with the doors closed at both ends of the room, Hannibal could hear footsteps occasionally wandering into his kitchen. His kitchen? He was feeling a little too much at home in Balor’s building.

  From his suitcase he picked up his treasured photograph, the one photo he displayed, the one which made him feel at home. He stood the small frame on the mantelpiece, kissed a fingertip, touched it to the woman’s face as usual, and moved on.

  Wearing only a pair of shorts, he left his gun in the belt holster on the card table. Then he used the bathroom, brushed his teeth and washed at the working sink in the kitchen. When he returned to his bed, he was determined to go directly to sleep. With no headboard, sitting up did not appeal to him anyway. Lying back, he thought about the woman who had remembered to bring pillows. It would be nice to be with her, but Sal might try one more trick. Besides, Hannibal moved slowly in matters of love, which could explain why he spent so many nights alone. Romances usually lasted a while for him, but when they ended the fallow period stretched on.

  Unfortunately, his brain would not sit still. He wondered if Sal would send night visitors, and if his mobster father really would get involved. Another part of his mind considered whether he should pursue Cindy. He wondered how long it would take Balor to start filling the building with legitimate tenants. And what would become of his homeless friends? All these questions revolving in his brain explained why Hannibal did not immediately fall asleep.

  He was on the very edge of unconsciousness when the shattering window jolted him upright. He turned his head to find light dancing through the crack under the door and it put his teeth on edge. One second later, the screaming smoke alarm jolted him into action.

  Flinging the opposite door open, Hannibal dashed for the fire extinguisher he had put in the kitchen. He could hear Sarge calling behind him, but was too far away to catch the words. Hannibal raced back to his bedroom, his bare feet slapping cracked tiles. As he passed his bed he pulled the extinguisher’s pin. He yanked his front-facing bedroom door aside and crossed the last room before the front.

  “Watch it!” shouted Sarge standing at the door to the hall. “There’s glass!” Flames splashed the floor and the wall on Hannibal’s right. Almost in the center of the room curved glass shards and charred rag fragments told an old story. Molotov cocktail. Hannibal’s extinguisher sprayed in a slow arc from left to right, covering the empty room with white, choking foam.

  Hannibal raised his angry green eyes, looking for and finding the shattered pane. It was the upper part of his left front window. Nothing prevented a bottle full of gasoline from sailing through above the bars.

  Welcome as a Christmas present, and just as big a surprise, Hannibal saw a lone man standing across the street, mesmerized by the dancing flames. No one could have seen the fire from outside unless they were looking for them.

  “I got this,” Hannibal hollered over the extinguisher’s hissing. “You get him.” Sarge’s dark face disappeared from the doorway, as Hannibal continued spraying as far as he could without stepping too far into the room. He was about to risk cutting his feet when Quaker poked his own extinguisher into the room and let fly.

  Hannibal’s own extinguisher was soon spent, but the fire had already lost its battle with the white foam. He went back into his apartment and dropped onto his bed, pulled on his sneakers and the belt with his holster, and scrambled through the smoldering room for the front door. Sirens screamed from his right.

  “Stay here and watch the crib,” Hannibal called, handing Quaker the shotgun Sarge had left on the desk. He did not wait for Quaker’s nod as he ran down the front steps three at a time.

  Something about the bluish street lamps drained the color from the night, leaving the world in an almost black and white state. Against the strong shadows, a revolving beacon threw a red wash over the scene periodically. The siren was fading out as Hannibal approached the end of the block, lungs straining after his hard sprint. He had expected to see a fire truck, but very quickly saw differently. He slowed to a walk, allowing his eyes time to decipher the scene.

  Two uniformed policemen stood straddle legged, guns drawn, aiming down with the two-handed FBI grip. Beneath the cold eyes of those two revolver muzzles, the man Hannibal had seen outside his house lay face down on the concrete. Sarge knelt on his back, holding the man’s arm twisted behind him. Hannibal was close enough to smell the sweat of the chase before he spoke.

  “Whoa, chill fellows,” Hannibal said. He smiled, hoping to defuse the situation. One gun snapped up toward him, and he saw nothing but anger in its owner’s colorless face. Too late he realized his wearing a gun had only raised the anxiety level on an already tense situation. A third perpetrator entering a two officer scene created a problem. He realized right then how easy a problem he would be to solve.

  The five men formed a frozen tableau in the dark. The lights continued to revolve on the patrol car’s roof long after the siren died away to nothing, leaving a pained silence. After his own years of police work, Hannibal knew well what an officer would feel in this kind of situation. He remembered the combination of emotions that could lead to a reaction like that of the policemen who captured Rodney King. His stomach clenched and he tasted bile rising into his throat. It could happen all at once unless everyone involved did the right thing.

  “Officers, my name is Hannibal Jones.” No apparent recognition. “I’m a private investigator.”

  “ID?” A policeman asked.

  “Not on me,” Hannibal said. His face showed frustration with himself. “Look, this is an awkward situation. I’d like to put my gun on the ground now, okay?”

  Four long beats of silence, then, “Put it down,” from one of them. Hannibal pulled his automatic very slowly with two fingers and placed it on the ground behind him. He looked around again as he stood up. Sarge and the arsonist were still frozen and silent. Good.

  “The man on top is in my employ, helping me with a security assignment. The man underneath him just threw a Molotov cocktail through my window, just up the street here.”

  “How do we know that? We got here, the bigger spook was pounding the shit out of the little one.” This was the shorter cop, whose ears hung like gull wings beneath his hat. He must be the senior man. Hannibal spoke directly to him.

  “I’ll tell you what. How about my man gets up, and you smell the other guy’s hands, huh?”

  “Put your hands on your head,” Big Ears told Sarge, as if inspiration had suddenly struck him. Then to Hannibal, “You too.” Both men obeyed, and Sarge slowly stood up.

  “You too,” the policeman ordered. The arsonist got up quickly, rubbing his arm. Big ears grabbed the injured arm, flung the man against his car, and lifted one hand, then the other, to his face.

  “Gasoline,” The policeman said in a softer tone. “Into the car.” The junior man got their prisoner handcuffed and into the back seat. Big Ears waved his pistol downward, and Hannibal and Sarge dropped their hands.

  “Will you come back to the building?” Hannibal asked, smiling now. “I can show you the damage, and I’d like to press charges.”

  “Go. We’ll follow in the car.”

  “May I?” Hannibal pointed toward his pistol. The cop shook his head, then motioned Hannibal aside and picked
up the gun.

  “I’ll give this back to you when we get to your place and your show me your credentials,” the cop said. “Just procedure.”

  “Perfectly reasonable, under the circumstances,” Hannibal said. He slapped Sarge on the shoulder, and the two of them started walking toward their temporary home.

  “Good job,” Hannibal said quietly to Sarge. “Didn’t really think you could catch that little bitch. You must’ve been hauling ass.”

  Sarge nodded, and chuckled to himself. Hannibal looked over, his forehead furrowed. In answer to his unvoiced question, Sarge said “You sure talk different when you talking to white folks.”

  -29-

  “So, you’re moving down to the second floor?” Hannibal asked. He was on the third floor, standing in the front room of the apartment Ray shared with Virgil and Timothy. Hannibal stood in just shorts and tennis shoes. With no curtains in place, morning sunshine flooded the room, glinting on Hannibal’s still-wet hair and warming his bare chest nicely.

  “Got to,” Ray said. “These railroad flats are okay, but I got too many people to get past to get to the bathroom.”

  Hannibal nodded understanding, turning toward the window as movement caught his eye. Two men were walking toward the house. The closer man was blonde, very thin, and wearing a loose linen suit. He walked very quickly, as if anxious to get inside. The other, by contrast, moved in no great hurry. Dressed in green work clothes, his hair was quite short, his tan face round, his expression bored. Hannibal waited for the first man to reach the door. He looked both ways and grabbed the doorknob just before Hannibal sprinted down the hall.

  Hannibal stopped at the head of the stairway on the second floor. The thin blonde slowly pushed his way in. Bright outdoor sunshine gave way to the hall’s cave-like gloom. The young man looked toward the door on his left, apparently waiting for his eyes to adjust. His mouth dropped open when they did and he found himself facing a very large man behind a rather small desk.