Troubleshooter

by Austin Camacho

  A closer look at Johnson, now facing Hannibal standing in the doorway, revealed nothing unusual. His uniform was absolutely regulation, his haircut within regulations, his shoes the cheap ones policemen can afford. He carried all the usual tools of the trade: mace, a nightstick, handcuffs and an automatic. A stainless steel automatic, in fact.

  D’Angelo held Ronzini’s left arm. His holster was police issue, but it held a blued automatic. Webster carried a revolver.

  “Tell me, Officer Johnson,” Hannibal began, putting a hand in the other man’s chest, “just what is the standard issue firearm in this city?”

  Johnson’s right hand moved toward his holster but Hannibal jarred him with a right cross before he could reach it. Webster managed to get his gun pointed at Hannibal, just before Virgil’s nightstick arced down on his wrist. The sound of the pistol hitting the floor was drowned out by Webster’s cry of pain.

  Ray got his arms around D’Angelo’s neck but the phony cop jammed an elbow into Ray’s midsection. After a third elbow smash, Ray dropped away. Still, Ray held him long enough for Hannibal to swing his right foot into D’Angelo’s stomach, dropping him onto the tile floor.

  Johnson, clearly this rescue team’s best fighter, managed a foot sweep that put Hannibal down hard on his left hip. In the hall, Sarge was bringing the shotgun on line. Charging low, Johnson got under the gun’s barrel to smash a shoulder into Sarge’s gut. Both men flew backward over the desk, dropping hard on the other side of it.

  From his low vantage point, Hannibal watched as D’Angelo whipped a side kick up into Virgil’s face and quickly tried to hustle Ronzini out of the room. Hannibal managed to capture D’Angelo’s ankle with his own. A sharp twist, and the false policeman fell forward fast, his chin meeting the desk with a stomach wrenching crack.

  On the far side of the hall, Johnson knelt up and sent two hard rights down into Sarge’s face. With Sarge dazed he was able to scoop up the scatter gun, turning on his knees to cover the hallway.

  Ronzini had stumbled when D’Angelo fell, but he was up now, reaching for the door to the outside. Using the desk for cover, Johnson controlled the front hall. It wouldn’t last forever, but it didn’t need to. His objective was clearly to cover the area long enough for Ronzini to escape.

  On the front room floor, Hannibal could see Ronzini was having trouble getting the dead bolt lock off. With a roaring shout Hannibal thrust his body forward, slamming the desk into Johnson and driving it forward until he smashed Johnson against the wall. He felt the desk slam to a stop, and heard Johnson’s cry of pain.

  Ronzini had just about released the bolt lock when Hannibal slid across the desktop, grabbing up the shotgun as his shoulder stopped him, thumping against Johnson’s face. He turned his muzzle on the Italian trying to escape.

  “You open that door,” Hannibal growled out breathlessly, “And I’ll blow your fucking face off, I swear to God.”

  The hallway became a stop action scene and, for a moment, Hannibal thought Ronzini might go for it.

  On the front room floor, Webster whined pitifully, cradling a fractured arm. Under that sound, Virgil breathed through clenched teeth, testing his tender jaw. Ray lurched to his hands and knees and vomited noisily. On the hallway floor, Sarge rolled onto his stomach, moaning softly as he gathered his consciousness.

  For a moment, Hannibal hoped Ronzini might go for it.

  Somehow, Ronzini must have sensed everything going through Hannibal’s mind. He slowly, carefully turned the knob that slid the bolt back into place. When he turned to face Hannibal, he looked like a man who had just decided to try a marathon after not running three steps in a year. Slowly his famous control returned and he managed a smile.

  “Shall I just return to my seat?” Ronzini asked.

  Running footsteps arrested Hannibal’s attention. He swung the shotgun toward the sound to find himself aiming at Cindy, who was racing down the hall from the kitchen. She stopped short, staring at the muzzle pointed her way. Hannibal very quickly swung the barrel back to cover Ronzini. Timothy ran into the hall from Hannibal’s front room, glaring at Ronzini who did not react. Quaker raced down the hall, stopping to help Hannibal to his feet. Hannibal didn’t feel much like talking right then, but waving a shotgun barrel proved an effective form of communication. Signaling with the muzzle he managed to get everyone into one room, and got the necessary frisking and securing done. Everyone, his own team and the Ronzini’s, behaved like professionals, clearly mindful of Hannibal’s twelve-gage prompting tool. He didn’t realize he had been dealing with shock until he felt it wearing off. When his mind was working normally again it was jammed with questions.

  “How in hell could he have put it together so fast?” Hannibal asked the room, rubbing his left shoulder, which had been his contact point with the desk.

  “Yeah, they were mighty convincing bulls,” Virgil said. Others shook their heads in agreement.

  “I heard it all from the kitchen,” Cindy said. “I figure these guys are probably full time police impersonators. Mighty handy, you got to admit. A cop can go a lot of places nobody else can.” She held a cold cloth on her father’s forehead. Ray sat in the chair Ronzini had occupied.

  “Sorry, man.” Sarge stood in the doorway between Hannibal’s front room and the hall. “That son of a bitch caught me with my drawers down. I feel like a real asshole.”

  “Don’t Sarge,” Hannibal answered. “He fooled all of us. And these guys were good. I mean, smooth, fast, and good with their hands.” Hannibal looked at Johnson, who offered an ironic smile and nodded. The three men in blue sat on the floor, handcuffed together in a circle with their backs facing each other.

  “Sorry I wasted your Paella,” Ray told his daughter quietly. Then he turned to Hannibal. “Well, jefe, what do we do with these fakes, eh?”

  “Ought to bury them in the backyard, in one hole, with their boss here,” Timothy said. His heated comment drew a stern look from everyone but Ronzini, who refused to look at him at all.

  “They brought some nice stuff with them, anyway,” Quaker said, waving at the pile in a corner, consisting of the three pistols, mace, nightsticks, and extra ammunition the uniforms had yielded. “Neat, ain’t it?”

  “Yeah.” Hannibal smiled. “As for the three stooges here, I think our only choice is to cut them loose.” He knelt to face Johnson. “You take a message back to Sally for me. Tell him we’re not amateurs in here. Tell him we’re ready to deal, and that’s the only way he’s going to get his old man back.” Then he turned to Ray. “When Sal sees them, like this, he’ll know he can’t just bust in here and take him.”

  More roughly than necessary, Virgil and Sarge dragged the fake policemen to their feet and hustled them outside. They looked to Hannibal like cops out of an old Mack Sennett movie, moving haltingly sideways down the stairs, arms outstretched to maximize their freedom of movement. He stood in the doorway holding one of the big flashlights until the three actors managed to get into their patrol car and drive away. Hannibal watched the car until it was out of sight, then returned to his front room. His confident smile had faded as soon as the counterfeit cops were gone.

  “Only an idiot doesn’t learn from his experiences,” Hannibal said. “That little visit kind of changes my view of proper defense. Not saying anyone screwed up, we just misjudged the enemy, and we need to adjust. Step one is to deal with our guest better. Virgil, can you handle getting Ronzini up to the third floor?”

  “Not a problem,” Virgil said, taking Ronzini by an arm.

  “He’ll be a lot harder to get at up there,” Sarge said. “Should have thought of that sooner.” Hannibal nodded. He would also be under fewer watchful eyes. That thought moved Hannibal to a more difficult decision.

  “Hey Quaker,” Hannibal said. “Toss me one of those guns. I’ll give this piece to Virgil in a minute, because I want him to stay upstairs and watch our guest. The other two stay with the back door guards from now on. Ray and you, Quaker. Sarge and Timothy each g
et a can of mace, and I think Cindy better hold the other one.”

  The team moved to their assigned places like well-drilled troops. As Hannibal handed Cindy her mace he pulled her into a long, firm hug. He released his tension silently in that hug, and could feel her doing the same. When the tremors stopped Hannibal headed for the stairs, still holding Cindy’s hand. The long walk up gave him time to realize how much tenser the situation had become with more guns in the house. Instinctively, he had maneuvered to keep one of them out of Timothy’s hands.

  He wanted to keep his conflict with Sal from becoming a war, but he was beginning to wonder if that was possible. He certainly didn’t favor banning guns, but he knew that firearms sometimes seemed to create a self-fulfilling prophecy. Given enough armed people, sooner or later somebody would shoot. Then somebody would shoot back, and the powder keg he was sitting on would violently explode.

  Ronzini was sitting on the bed in the front room puffing another cigar when Hannibal and Cindy walked in. The gangster turned toward them, his poker face back in place.

  “Out there kind of reminds me of the old neighborhood,” Ronzini said, pointing out the window. The moon was still fat and full, hanging low. “Kids are hanging out under those street lights down there, except instead of singing do-wop like we did, it’s that damned rap shit. So, what kind of revenge are you going to take for that little attempted rescue?”

  Hannibal found a chair and fell into it. He moved a few feet away from his captive, reducing the impact of the strong, sweet cigar smoke. “I don’t think you get it. That was a pretty good shot Sal just took, but it was a fair ball. I still want to deal with him. I figure if we keep bumping heads, he’ll figure out we can deal.”

  “The Balor thing was different somehow?” Ronzini asked. Bed springs squealed as he sat forward, watching Hannibal closely.

  “Sally’s problem is with me,” Hannibal said firmly.

  “If I understand the setup, that ain’t quite right,” Ronzini said. “It’s Balor who’s paying you to get his building back.”

  “I’m the man that confronted Sally,” Hannibal snapped, feeling his face flush.

  “Okay, so let’s say Balor’s the king and you’re his knight errant. Apparently Salvatore decided, instead of working to capture the knight, metaphorically speaking, he’d just go around him and take the king out of play. Think about it. In a war, the general doesn’t usually shoot anybody, but he’s not a noncombatant, is he? Now me, I didn’t even know this whole war was going on. I got some information and passed it on to my boy, but nobody bothered to tell me what it was all about. Way I see it, I’m the only non-player on the board.”

  Leaning back against the wall, Ronzini blew a long, thick stream of smoke toward Hannibal’s head. Cindy stood behind her man as he turned toward the window, trying to avoid the smoke screen Ronzini was sending out, clouding his reasoning.

  “Nice try, pimp, but it won’t wash,” Cindy said. “Your boy’s a rogue, not even playing by your own rules. You know this little crack house isn’t worth beating up a prominent member of the bar, of this society. That only makes enemies, and you got where you are by making friends. Besides, in case you didn’t know, a lot of what he sells here gets cut and sold again to bored students and housewives who come in from the ‘burbs to score. Eventually, that’s going to make more influential enemies. He’s out of control and you know it. And right now, the only way Hannibal could stop him was to block him. You’re part of the game, all right, but in this case, to extend your own metaphor, you’re just a pawn. A pawn from his side used to block him.”

  Cindy tossed her hair triumphantly, and Ronzini gave her a nod.

  “You must be very good in court,” Ronzini said. He leaned back against the wall and lowered his eyes.

  Hannibal got up and moved to stand at one of the front windows. Beneath him, young men in knit caps and baggy, low slung jeans stood together in a cone of light almost like a theater spotlight. He could just catch their voices on the slight summer breeze. They were not rapping. They were in fact singing do-wop, a low sweet love song, a cappella, the base voice anchoring the rich harmonies playing above it.

  “When you were part of your old neighborhood, it was different,” Hannibal said, still facing away from Ronzini. “So, you hooked some lonely boy up with some whore. Or you showed him where he could shoot craps or play some poker. Okay. But the next day, he was the same boy. When Sally convinces some kid to start smoking crack, or shooting up, that kid ain’t never the same.”

  “Let’s not get moralistic,” Ronzini said, never opening his eyes. “We both know you’re not doing this to save the youth of our nation. You’re just a mercenary on a mission.”

  Watching the singers just down the block, Hannibal did not feel that way. He had come to care about this little community, this tiny city within a city. If he was a troubleshooter, then this was where he needed to be. Balor’s trouble had really been a symptom of the trouble with this neighborhood.

  He had brought a lot of trouble to this block himself in the last few days, by simply disrupting the status quo. But somehow, while disturbing the smooth water on the surface, he had made a place for himself. He remembered Cindy’s words about nature’s feelings toward a vacuum. If he finally forced Sal Ronzini out, who or what would rush in to fill the void?

  The singers stood off to his left. At the right of his field of vision, another young black man seemed to be looking up at him. As Hannibal watched, this man’s eyes slid from Hannibal’s window to one in the building directly across the street. Odd, he thought. That room was darkened. Why would anyone be looking into a window where there was nothing to be seen?

  Focused on that black square across from him, he thought he saw a glint of reflected light. It could be nothing. Or, it could be a stray moonbeam dancing off a pair of binoculars. It occurred to him that Sal might be keeping good surveillance on them.

  No, that couldn’t be right. He saw only one glint of light. His skin suddenly seemed too small and the tiny hairs on the backs of his hands stood up when he realized what that fact implied. A single lens. A telescopic sight.

  -36-

  The crack sound came from the sniper’s bullet breaking the sound barrier on its way across the street.

  Hannibal’s elbow cracked painfully on the tiles. He heard Cindy scream and the impact of three bodies hitting the floor. Bile tried to rush up his throat when he realized how narrowly he had 5escaped death, saved by his own reflexes. So many years of waiting for someone else’s bullet to find him had driven him to the floor before he consciously made such a decision.

  His hands shook, the aftermath of the sudden adrenaline rush. Hannibal grabbed that tension, forced it through his anger and converted it to action. Crouched low, he managed to sprint over the other bodies on the floor.

  “Virgil! Stay low, and watch him,” he shouted back through the door. He was already dropping down the stairs at top speed, hitting every third step. One irrational idea consumed his entire mind. Nobody would ever take a shot at him twice.

  “Sarge,” Hannibal shouted when he hit the second floor. “Open that Goddamn door!” Sarge looked up and, seeing Hannibal was not slowing, jumped from behind the desk. He just managed to unlock the door and pull it open before Hannibal bolted through it.

  Listening to the tap of his own shoes, Hannibal darted across the street and into the facing building. It was set up exactly like Balor’s, but with only a single dim bulb for hallway light. He pocketed his Oakley’s as he hit the stairs. He was up one flight of steps before his rational mind took hold. This building was occupied. He could not start a firefight in here. The shooter might not be in a vacant apartment. He could have hostages inside. If he got scared, he might just start firing wildly.

  Leaning against the banister on the second floor, he pulled the gun from his holster. Only when its brightly polished slide glinted in the dim light did he realize it was not his. He handed Ray his pistol when he went to answer the door. That
was when the fake police came in, and Ray still had his pistol. He had intended to give Virgil the one he was carrying. He held a stainless steel, nine millimeter Beretta 92F, the Army’s standard sidearm. Dropping the magazine he saw that it was fully loaded. That was predictable. Of course, its sights were set for someone else’s preference. He hoped he would not have to use it anyway.

  Shoes on the steps above him arrested his attention. He pushed himself against the wall, ears ringing from straining to analyze those footsteps. It was a man, not in a hurry, but stepping carefully. Maybe just a resident, trying to get out of the line of trouble. Maybe.

  A giant invisible hand compressed Hannibal’s chest. He held the gun low, aimed at the base of the stairs but hopefully in his shadow. The tall man rounded the corner of the staircase and stopped dead. He was white, with flyaway hair and a quirky smile. He was dressed, like Hannibal, entirely in black. His reason for being there hung from his right hand. It was a bolt action rifle attached to a wide scope. A light gathering type, Hannibal assumed, unnecessary in this case since Hannibal had been nicely back-lighted for his convenience.

  “Freeze, you son of a bitch,” Hannibal whispered, thrusting his pistol out in front of himself. “Who the hell you think you shooting at, huh?”

  He could have put the rifle down and gone with Hannibal to the police. A sane option. He could have tried to fire, and fallen under a hail of nine millimeter shells. A courageous alternative.

  Neither very smart nor very brave, the shooter turned and rushed up the stairs.

  Carrying less, Hannibal figured he could catch this fool before he reached the top. But amid that double clatter of racing feet, fear gave the shooter an extra push. He stayed just far enough ahead of Hannibal to reach the third floor and get through the kitchen door. He swung the door back into Hannibal’s face. Since the door had no lock, Hannibal was only seconds behind him.