Troubleshooter

by Austin Camacho

  Hannibal burst into an empty kitchen. A lack of utensils and furniture told him it was a vacant flat. Moonlight flooded into each room as Hannibal scrambled down the length of the apartment. He had heard no doors open or close, yet the entire flat was empty, but for the sound of his own pounding heart.

  Charging back to the kitchen, Hannibal coughed in the dust he had raised. The only other sound he detected was a squeak sound he could not readily identify. It was a scraping sound, like rusted metal on metal. He closed his eyes to get a directional fix, but the answer made no sense. The sound was not coming from anywhere inside the apartment. It was outside.

  As absurd as it seemed, Hannibal leaned over the sink and stuck his head out the back window. A narrow steel ladder ran down the back of the building like a rusted spine. A fire escape ladder. The shooter moved slowly down it, seemingly held to the brick surface by his own thick shadow, fighting to hang on to his rifle. A prized possession, Hannibal thought, which could well get him caught.

  Putting the automatic in his holster, Hannibal sat up on the sink, let his legs out, and started down the ladder behind the shooter. His motion, combined with his quarry’s, made the ladder grind against the rusted bolts holding it in place, creating a bizarre, syncopated ratcheting noise. Competing with that noise was a raspy voice.

  “Leave me alone, you crazy coon.” That voice, heavy with fear, rushed up and slapped Hannibal’s ears. When he looked down, Hannibal saw the shooter, only five or six feet from the ground. He had stopped and was trying to get a round into the rifle’s chamber.

  “Don’t be stupid,” Hannibal called down, but the shooter was not listening. He managed to pull the bolt back, and he had what looked like a pretty heavy round in his hand. Hannibal stopped, hanging on by his right hand while he pulled the pistol back out.

  Detail was hard to see, even in the stark moonlight, but sound carried well. The click of a well oiled lockup told Hannibal the bolt was closed, the rifle ready to fire. The shooter leaned in to the ladder, locking the rifle’s stock into his shoulder.

  Hannibal kicked his left foot loose and swung out like a gate. While the shooter frantically tried to adjust his aim, Hannibal looked straight down his own three-dot sights, seeing the luminous front dot squarely between the two rear sight dots, and squeezed his trigger lightly. It was a good trigger, and the gun surprised him when it let off. There was the sharp clap of the shot, and a soft glass tinkle right behind it. The telescopic sight was shattered.

  The shooter’s hands relaxed, as if they had lost all sensation. He fell backward in slow motion, dropped through space for three seconds and landed with a thump on the well cut grass. Hannibal swallowed hard, snatched a couple of deep, slow breaths, and followed him down.

  From the ladder, the killer had been just a spread-eagled figure. Up close, Hannibal could see his right eye was missing. The hole in back of his head would not be nearly as neat. Hannibal had no desire to see it.

  Only then did he realize how careless errors and coincidence had conspired to make his life easier. He had killed a mob killer, but he had done it with a mob gun, and while wearing gloves. Unwilling to question the fates, he simply dropped the pistol beside the corpse and sprinted down the narrow tunnel between buildings.

  At the front of the building he stopped in the shadows. Clinging to the brick wall he checked left, then right. He spotted three men who definitely did not belong there. Sal was having his building watched, and these men could not avoid standing out on the sidewalk. Thinking it was better to be safe than shot, Hannibal sprinted across the street and up his own front steps.

  Sarge opened the door and stepped out with one foot, brandishing the shotgun, as if daring anybody to start something. Once Hannibal got inside he scanned the street one last time before closing and locking the door. A second later he was leaning forward on the desk, his chest heaving from the running, the tension, the thing he had just done.

  “You get him?” Sarge asked.

  “I got him.”

  “Uh-huh. How you feel?”

  Hannibal took three more breaths. Then he looked up, finding Sarge’s eyes. “Let you know tomorrow.”

  Hannibal sometimes ran wearing leg weights for training, so he recognized this feeling. He thought he had never seen two longer flights of stairs. He knew he had reached the top floor only because Cindy tried to crush his ribs when he came within reach. No words were needed, but he drew strength from her body, from her love being pressed into him. Her love? Yes, he could say it now, at least himself.

  Ronzini had been moved back to the second room. He sat on the bed there now, with Virgil sitting just beyond his reach, holding his billy club as if at any moment he might decide to put it into Ronzini’s teeth. Ronzini looked up with more curiosity than anything else showing on his face.

  “Your friends are minus one shooter,” Hannibal said, pacing to bleed off tension. “He’s dead. And your boy the nut case has got people out there, watching this building. Are they going to try it again, or what?”

  Ronzini nodded. “He won’t give it up.”

  “That don’t make no sense.” Hannibal found a folding chair for himself. “What’s to gain?”

  “It ain’t about what,” Ronzini said patiently, as if lecturing a slow student. “It’s who. It’s just who the boy is, and who you are. See, the problem is, nobody knows who they are anymore.”

  “You mean we don’t know our place, right?” Cindy asked sarcastically.

  “It’s this melting pot thing,” Ronzini went on. “It’s got you all confused. Cultural diversity. Civil rights. Bunch of crap. In the old days, I’d have called him a nigger, and you a spic.” Flames arced from Cindy’s eyes, but Ronzini was unsinged. “So? You’d call me a wop, or a dago, or a guinea. So we all knew who we were, I mean in relation to each other. We didn’t get confused, know what I mean?” Hannibal thought Cindy was probably waiting for him to strike out, but he was really listening, really trying to understand this weird philosophy.

  “You’re saying Sal thinks he’s naturally superior,” Cindy said with a sneer.

  “No,” Hannibal said, “He’s saying the boy don’t know any other way.”

  “Not with you,” Ronzini said grimly.

  “If I was another Italian, he’d know how to deal with me,” Hannibal said, standing. “Or at least, he’d know he could deal with me. Sure. Sally probably only sees black guys as servants. Or customers. Maybe competitors. But not as men.”

  “He knows who he is,” Ronzini said. “He doesn’t know who you are. I mean, he thinks you’re a nigger, but you don’t act like a nigger. And he’s still acting like a dumb wop.”

  What the hell planet did these Ronzinis live on, Hannibal wondered. What century were they stuck in? He turned away from Ronzini, finding Virgil’s intense black face. “I need a drink behind that shit.”

  “Ray’s got some Bacardi in the kitchen, and some coke too,” Virgil said. “I don’t think dagos can swallow the stuff.”

  With a chuckle, Hannibal staggered into the kitchen, with Cindy behind him. There he found a bottle of rum. From it he poured two Styrofoam cups half full, filling them a second later with warm cola. He watched his woman’s eyes as he took a couple of sips. She looked so beautiful to him, a single spot of loveliness in a world that was otherwise looking very ugly right now.

  “I want you out of here,” Hannibal said softly. “You don’t belong in all this ugliness.”

  “You want me out, you put me out.” Cindy watched his face closely. “That’s the only way you’ll get me out. You’ll have to pick me up and carry me out. I belong with you.” Again she sipped her drink. “You know, I’ve never seen a man with hazel eyes before.”

  Hannibal chuckled, wrapping his arms around her. “Me too.”

  “You know, you’ve got what they call a situation here,” she said.

  “Yeah, and the situation’s getting away from me,” Hannibal said. “I mean, we’re handling each thing as it comes up, but
if it all comes apart, I don’t know if I can protect you and the guys.”

  “You know, you could always just call the police,” Cindy said. In the dim light, as the rum warmed his belly, she became the voice of reason. “Explain your motives for grabbing Ronzini. Put me in a courtroom with them, and I’ll at least bring the son down.”

  “Yeah, I could do that. It would get everybody out of here safe.” He held her at arms length now. His mouth twisted as if he had swallowed something bitter.

  “So?”

  “Only thing is, it just feels so much like quitting,” Hannibal said. They shared one last strong hug before heading back toward the front of the house. Almost there, they heard Sarge calling from the walkie-talkie they had left on the mantelpiece.

  “Hey, Hannibal. Can you hear me?” Hannibal reached up to get the walkie-talkie, thumbing down the send button.

  “I got you, Bro.”

  “Listen, something weird is happening out there,” Sarge said. “Think you ought to come down.”

  -37-

  Hannibal trotted downstairs grimly. He briefly considered Cindy’s suggestion. By just calling the police and confessing, he could get his people safely out of the building. In a courtroom, he could still bring Sal Ronzini down.

  Considered and rejected it, in the space of one flight of stairs.

  Sarge met him on the second floor, leading him to the front room of an unoccupied apartment. It seemed unlikely any snipers had sighted this room in. There they sat on the cool tile floor scanning the darkened street. The singers were gone, replaced by an apparently random assortment of men, just loitering up and down the block.

  Sarge pointed out one of the wanderers. “That big mother right there’s got to be mob muscle. And this big head dude here.”

  “Yeah, and this one,” Hannibal said, targeting another. “How many you think are out there?”

  “Well, so far I seen six, I think,” Sarge said. Hannibal could see worry lines forming on Sarge’s face for the first time. Not liking what he saw, he turned back to the window.

  “Wait a minute.” Hannibal had seen a black man walk across the front of the building, carrying a baseball bat. “What about this guy? He can’t be one of Sal’s boys. Too small, for one thing.”

  “Nope, I think he’s one of the neighbors,” Sarge said. “That brother over there, he got a razor in his hand. Saw him jostle one of the mob types a while back. I know he lives here, cause I seen him on the street the last couple of days.”

  Hannibal put his back against the wall and slapped the heels of his palms against his forehead. Was Sally bracing for a final, all out assault on the building? Hannibal was psychologically prepared for that eventuality. He had considered it one of the possibilities.

  But now the picture was changing. Local people occupied their street, acting as if they were bracing for a fight. One more eventuality he had not anticipated.

  “Where’s Ray?” Hannibal asked.

  “Back door, left.”

  “Thanks.” Hannibal stood up. “Keep watching the front door.”

  Hannibal moved to his own kitchen, where Ray sat on the sink sideboard. Hannibal remembered sitting in that exact spot watching for movement out the window. Ray had a pistol in his hand, but kept it pointed low. He looked up and smiled when Hannibal walked in.

  “I think we’ve got them scared,” Ray said. “Haven’t seen a hint of movement out there since I got here.”

  “Good deal,” Hannibal said. “I stopped back here to get my own gun back.”

  “Oh yeah,” Ray said, pulling he weapon out of his waistband and handing it to Hannibal. “I was feeling a little heavy packing two.”

  Hannibal holstered his automatic and went as far as the door before turning.

  “Listen Ray,” Hannibal said, “I don’t think Cindy should be here right now. Think you could talk to her?”

  Ray grinned and shook his head. “Paco, I’m just her papa. If she won’t listen to you, I’d be just wasting my breath. But for what it’s worth, I’m glad you at least thought about it.”

  Hannibal walked toward the front of the building, feeling as if he had no control of anything. He nodded at Sarge but walked past him to unlock the door. Sarge stood up quickly, grabbing his arm.

  “What the hell?”

  “I got to go out, Bro,” Hannibal said. “These people could get hurt messing in our problems.”

  “Yeah,” Sarge said. “You could get hurt too. Wait for morning.”

  Hannibal shook his head. “People could die before morning.” After a deep breath, he opened the door just enough to squeeze out.

  Timothy filled his lungs with marijuana smoke, held it for five seconds, and let it slowly leak out his mouth and nose. He sat alone in the total darkness, hugging his small pistol to his stomach as if to keep warm.

  That coward Jones would do anything to avoid a fight, Timothy just knew it. And in this case, anything meant cutting a deal with Ronzini and his bastard son. Jones would bargain away their advantage and everybody would walk away from this as if nothing had every happened.

  Except for one thing. Ronzini had to die.

  And he, Timothy, would do it. If Jones or one of the others didn’t finish Ronzini off, he would be set free. He would walk out that door as if he owned the place. And then.

  And then Timothy would come up out of the dark, and aim his little gun, which he stole from one of the junkies Ronzini created, and blow his head open.

  It was eerie on the sidewalk, and it took Hannibal a moment to realize why. There were people on the street, all men, but it was quiet. This was the first night since he arrived on the block that he heard no music from anywhere, no loud laughter, no partying sounds.

  Feeling a dozen eyes on him, he walked left toward the cross street. He recognized the black man coming around the corner carrying a golf club. Monty had called him Mister Lincoln. He was still limping, because of Hannibal.

  “Where you headed, bro?” Hannibal asked, falling into step with the man.

  “I don’t want no trouble with you,” Lincoln said.

  “Won’t be none,” Hannibal said, trying a tentative smile. “I’m really sorry about what happened before. I don’t want you to get hurt again.”

  Lincoln stopped. “Look-a-here, brother. Everybody knows what’s going down on the block. You done what we all should have done. Now the man’s out, we don’t aim to see him get back in, dig?”

  “Look, I hear what you’re saying, but it could get dangerous out here,” Hannibal said, walking with Lincoln as if they were having the most normal conversation. “People could get hurt.”

  “Hey,” someone else called. Hannibal spun, to find a muscular young black man behind him, clutching a length of lead pipe. “You this Hannibal Jones?”

  “Why?”

  “Just want to tell you, we got your back,” the newcomer said. “You right about one thing, bro. People could get hurt. Especially if they white, and pushing drugs, and they come up here in my hood and start messing with a brother who’s trying to get the junkies out.”

  “Look, fellows, I appreciate all this, really,” Hannibal said, backing away slowly, “but these boys don’t play. Let’s try to keep it cool, okay?”

  “Relax, man,” the pipe carrier said. “They don’t start no S-H, won’t be no I-T.”

  Hannibal headed in the other direction, not at all relaxed by the conversation he just had. It made him realize how inwardly his eyes had been focused since his arrival there. Looking out through defensive portals, looking for enemies the whole time, he had only actually met two true members of the community and one of them he had shot in the leg. He headed for the other now, thinking she might make a difference.

  On his way up the block, he passed several sets of eyes, all aimed at him. Some watched him encouragingly. Most of them,

  a good majority, stared hatred at him. Those faces, many of them white, carried fear as well. Bravado aside, no one really wanted to take part in a nighttime
street brawl.

  Sal must carry a lot of weight to get them to do this, he thought. That thought frightened him most of all, since he saw Sal Ronzini as a rogue, dangerously out of control.

  Figures stepped into, through and out of the street lamps’ bright bubbles on both sides of the street. Almost at the far end of the block, Hannibal reached his destination. Surprisingly, the person he was looking for stood on her porch, watching him approach. Her hands were folded in what might be prayer.

  “Mother Washington, what are you doing out here?” he called up from the sidewalk.

  “I live here son,” she replied, with the infuriating calm of a Buddha. By contrast, Monty was pacing the porch like a puppy, staring up the block, apparently aching to be part of the action.

  “Ma’am, there’s a lot of tension out here,” Hannibal said, holding his own hands up as if in supplication. “There could be fighting any minute. Won’t you please go inside?”

  “Grandma’s got me to protect her,” Monty said.

  “Why don’t you come in, Mister Jones?” Mother Washington asked.

  “Not a good idea.” Hannibal was pacing in a circle, hands on his hips. “I’m a lightning rod for violence right now, and I don’t want to bring it into your home.”

  “So what brought you all the way down here?” Mrs. Washington asked.

  Hannibal hated the desperation he heard in his own voice when he answered. “Ma’am, please, please. Call your neighbors. I know you must have influence with the women here. Tell them to get their men off the street tonight.”

  The old woman’s face was wrapped in shadow, but Hannibal could see her thinking it through. After a moment, her eyes like deep brown laser beams found his.

  “Why?”

  “Why?” He pointed up the block, unable to contain his frustration any longer. “Can’t you see? They’re badly outnumbered. They got kitchen knives and straight razors against switchblades and guns in the hands of people who do this for a living.”

  “Know what I see?” Her voice was soft but strong. The voice she used in church, her hymnal voice. “I see men who haven’t stood up for anything in a long time, even themselves, standing up now. I see men, real men, standing together, working together, thank you Jesus. I see my fine black men getting together, my Lord, to push Satan out of our street. Hallelujah. Praise his name.”