Troubleshooter

by Austin Camacho

  “That all you got, son?” Hannibal asked. “Better get hot. I’m almost warmed up.” Sal practically roared his anger. Three rapid kicks followed from different angles. Hannibal managed to block the first two, but the third caught the side of his head. He rolled across a table, smashing a chair into kindling on his way to the floor.

  Rage blazed from Sal’s eyes as he kicked and tossed chairs out of his path on his way to Hannibal’s landing site. When he got there, he stamped down on empty space.

  “That’s about enough,” Hannibal said from the other side of a table he had rolled under. Quickly sidestepping, he slammed a left hook under Sal’s guard and deep into his solar plexus. Air blew out of Sal, just before Hannibal’s right cross snapped his head around. Sal tried to retaliate with a side stamp kick, but Hannibal hopped back out of reach.

  Waving his enemy toward him with an upturned fist, Hannibal backpedaled into the clear area in front of the bar. Sal wiped the corner of his lip, noticed blood on his hand, and followed.

  Hannibal started bobbing and weaving. Sal set himself for an assault, but misread the signals Hannibal was sending. Just as the younger Ronzini shifted his weight for another kick, Hannibal moved in, driving a hard right jab into the other man’s stomach.

  “That’s all you get for a while,” Hannibal said, leaning back. “School’s in.” His soft bluish eyes flicked to Ox, Petey, and Dennis on the other side of the room. All three men stood relaxed, watching with cold, professional attention. Sal watched Hannibal closely, but never caught his rhythm.

  Three more times Sal tried to deliver a snap kick or a stamp. All three times Hannibal moved first, slamming a black gloved fist into Sal’s midsection. Desperation and pain showed on Sal’s face, but he stepped back and whipped a kick at Hannibal’s head. This time Hannibal hooked Sal’s leg in his arm and swept his other foot out from under him. When Sal rolled to his feet, he was no longer moving in.

  “You got good training, kid.” Hannibal stepped in a slow circle around Sal. “Good technique. But you ain’t been in no fights, have you? I mean, not real fights. Didn’t take too many trips to the ring to teach me not to kick too much too early. Tires you out.”

  Sal’s breathing was fast and ragged, but he was in no way out of the action. He half turned, as if confused, but snapped up a side thrusting kick. It was so fast that the four spectators barely saw. The material of Sal’s pants snapped with the speed of the kick.

  Hannibal slapped the foot away with his left hand.

  “Your stomach’s too sore to get any power into your kicks, boy,” Hannibal said, as if addressing a slow student. Then he feinted to Sal’s head and drove forward, landing a hard three part combination: left-right to the stomach and a left uppercut that put Sal back four steps before he regained his balance.

  Hannibal’s arms felt like lead, but he knew his job was not over. Sal was hurt, but not beaten. Side stepping, Hannibal got his back to the bar. Sal’s eyes were wary, but his arrogant confidence was shaken. Hannibal lowered his hands and, after a few false moves with his shoulders, leaped up. His left foot barely left the ground, but his right heel slapped Sal’s blocking arm into his head so hard he was sure Ox heard it across the room.

  Panting, Sal spun back quickly, bringing his right hand down like an ax toward his opponent’s neck. Hannibal leaned back out of range and brought up a roundhouse kick, his right foot chopping up into Sal’s gut.

  This time Sal stayed partially doubled over. He looked up at Hannibal, holding his hands as if to block another attack. Sweat dripped from Sal’s forehead, mingled with blood from a gash there. His panting gasps made him sound like a young boy about to cry.

  Dirty sweat also dripped into Hannibal’s eyes, making them sting, but he did not dare block his vision wiping it away. Sore and aching, he turned an inquiring gaze at Ronzini, who had watched this ordeal with no sign of reaction on his face. The older man lowered his eyes almost closed, and tilted his head forward an inch.

  Continue.

  Hannibal’s anger was renewed, but he did not know why. Straightening himself, he again made eye contact with the younger Ronzini. His hesitation ended when he saw Sal’s lips move, forming the words “fuck you”. With a shout, Hannibal jumped and twisted, executing a textbook perfect spinning back kick.

  Sal never had a chance. The blow’s full force took him in the center of his chest. Sal’s sternum flexed in, then out, and he flew across open space. His back took the full impact on a table and he rolled backward over it. He landed among a group of wooden chairs, making a noise much like the sound of bowling a strike.

  Shifting his aching shoulders, Hannibal walked methodically forward to Sal, who had managed to get up on one knee.

  “You done?” Hannibal asked.

  “Fuck you,” Sal spat, slurring through swollen lips. Hannibal’s uppercut caught the point of his chin, lifting him unsteadily to his feet. Hannibal followed that with a series of minor jabs, tossing Sal’s face to one side, then the other, until his resolve crumbled, and he made the transition from blocking to covering up. When next he gasped in pain, it sounded like a sob.

  “Leave me alone,” Sal whined through clenched, useless fists. Hannibal paused long enough to catch a breath, then drove a sharper, stinging jab between Sal’s hands. A tooth tore his glove over his middle knuckle.

  Sal lay flat on his back across a table, staring helplessly upward, arms at his sides. Trained for three-minute rounds, Hannibal could barely lift his own arms by this time. He managed to get his fingers into Sal’s collar and lift the man’s upper body. His right arm cocked back, readying a pounding blow he had been saving since the day Sal Ronzini kicked him from behind and left him lying in a pile of trash.

  “Enough,” Ronzini called from behind the bar. His voice sounded strained, but only a little, as if something he saw had unexpectedly bothered him. Hannibal turned toward him, pulling back his lips, showing his teeth in a death’s head grimace. His arm cocked back one more inch. Ox stepped forward, one step. Hannibal turned his deadly grimace toward him. Ox’s dispassionate face reminded Hannibal of his professional status. With a look of disgust, he opened his left hand, letting Sal’s head thump back onto the table.

  When Hannibal reached the bar, exhaustion suddenly wrapped around him like a wet sheet. Afraid to sit, he leaned one arm on the bar and put a foot up on the brass rail. Inches from Ronzini’s face, he wondered what he could possibly do if his host decided one of his three flunkies should shoot him through the head.

  “Satisfied?” Hannibal asked.

  Ronzini nodded. “Yes. It is done.” Hannibal reached for his gun, but Ronzini raised an index finger to stop him. “Your business with my son is over. You will not become involved in his affairs again.”

  Hannibal looked at Sal, raising a hand in his direction. “It’s over. He stays out of my way.” Again Ronzini nodded.

  Hannibal placed his hand over his pistol’s grip, laying his index finger on the trigger guard. Dennis and Petey reached under their jackets but Hannibal’s focus stayed on Ronzini.

  “And you and the boy both stay out my hood,” Hannibal snarled, pushing his face forward, almost nose to nose with the other man. Ronzini’s face showed he did not quite understand. Hannibal took a deep breath and tried to pretend he was dealing with a businessman, not a street hood. “I want you and Salvatore to stay away from my neighborhood. A five-block radius around that house I just moved into. Those people are my neighbors and are to be considered to be under my personal protection.”

  All eyes now shifted to Ronzini. Showing no emotion, he again nodded slightly forward. “We stay out of your…hood,” he said. Hannibal smiled with the left side of his mouth, the side whose lip was not split, and pushed his automatic into its shoulder holster. Rolling along the bar, he got his back against it so both elbows could support him. Ahead of him, Sal lay unconscious on a table, unaware of the commitment he had just made. It did not matter. He was without honor. Hannibal assumed his father was no
t.

  “Our business is concluded,” Ronzini said. He poured himself one last drink. “Be gone when Salvatore wakes up.”

  Hannibal pushed himself away from the bar. “Dennis,” he called. “I need a ride home. To Anacostia.” Dennis looked at Ronzini, who nodded assent. Hannibal, meanwhile, had reached the restaurant’s front door and tried the knob. It was locked with a dead bolt that had no handle.

  “I don’t do back doors,” Hannibal said arrogantly. Ronzini smiled and tossed Dennis a set of keys. Hannibal stood wishing the man could move a bit faster as Dennis unlocked and opened the front door. They passed through, just as Ox and Petey picked Salvatore Ronzini up from the table.

  As Hannibal approached the Continental, he heard a high, piercing whistle.

  “Hey, Chico. I drive Mr. Jones.”

  It was Ray’s voice. Hannibal looked to his left to see Ray standing behind the white Volvo’s open driver’s door. Sarge stood on the other side.

  “Sorry, Dennis,” Hannibal said. “I made a deal with this guy for the next four weeks.”

  Seeing how slowly Hannibal was walking, Sarge opened the back door for him. Swallowing pained noises, Hannibal slowly pushed himself into the Volvo’s back seat and closed the door. He was pleasantly surprised to find Cindy in the back seat. As he settled into the seat she leaned her head into his chest, but stayed quiet. He wasn’t sure how she knew this was not the time for questions. He was just happy to put his arm around her and enjoy the silence. Her head fell against his chest and her warmth seemed to breathe life back into him.

  As Ray pulled the car away from the curb, Hannibal felt a sense of blessed closure. He hurt everywhere, but he felt good. He was happy this case was over and miserable about how it ended. He had managed to do what he was hired for, and had certainly earned his fee, but Dan Balor had paid too dearly for what he got.

  At least Ray would be able to get his taxi business going. Hannibal would see to that. But what would become of his other new friends, Sarge, Quaker, and Virgil? And what about Timothy? He didn’t really know, and maybe he shouldn’t. He finally saw that their fates were not up to him to settle, but were in their own hands.

  Would all the drug users find a new place to commit slow suicide? That he was sure of, and again, it was their own choice.

  “You know, now I put so much work into it, I kind of like that building in Anacostia,” Ray said from the front seat. “Hey, Hannibal, how much you think the rent will be there? Maybe I’ll just rent one of those flats.”

  “Let’s ask Balor tomorrow,” Hannibal said. “We can be neighbors.” He did not know he was going to say that until it came out. He did not know when he made the decision to stay in that run down, lousy apartment. He did not know how he would run his business from there, or even if the furnace in that building would keep his apartment warm in the winter.

  But with a smile he realized that he did know who would help him decorate it.

  THE END

  Author’s Bio

  Austin S. Camacho is a public affairs specialist for the Department of Defense. America’s military people overseas know him because for more than a decade his radio and television news reports were transmitted to them daily on the American Forces Network.

  He was born in New York City but grew up in Saratoga Springs, New York. He majored in psychology at Union College in Schenectady, New York. Dwindling finances and escalating costs brought his college days to an end after three years. He enlisted in the Army as a weapons repairman but soon moved into a more appropriate field. The Army trained him to be a broadcast journalist. Disc jockey time alternated with news writing, video camera and editing work, public affairs assignments and news anchor duties.

  During his years as a soldier, Austin lived in Missouri, California, Maryland, Georgia and Belgium. While enlisted he finished his Bachelor’s Degree at night and started his Master’s, and rose to the rank of Sergeant First Class. In his spare time, he began writing adventure and mystery novels set in some of the exotic places he’d visited.

  After leaving the Army he continued to write military news for the Defense Department as a civilian. Today he handles media relations and writes articles for the DoD’s Deployment Health Support Directorate. He has settled in northern Virginia with his wife Dee and son Phillip.

  Austin is a voracious reader of just about any kind of nonfiction, plus mysteries, adventures and thrillers. When he isn’t working or reading, he’s writing.

  Website: www.ascamacho.com

  Email: ascamacho@hotmail.com

  Other Hannibal Jones Mysteries

  by Austin S. Camacho

  Blood and Bone

  An eighteen-year-old boy lies dying of leukemia. Kyle’s only hope is a bone marrow transplant, but no one in his family can supply it. His last chance lies in finding his father, who disappeared before he was born. Kyle’s family has nowhere to turn until they learn of a certain troubleshooter - that self-styled knight errant in dark glasses, Hannibal Jones. But his search for the missing man turns up much more: A woman who might be Kyle’s illegitimate sister, the woman who could be her mother, and a man who may have killed Kyle’s father. Hannibal follows a twisting path of deception, conspiracy and greed, from Washington to Mexico, but with each step the danger grows.

  Collateral Damage

  Bea Collins was troubled when she went to Hannibal Jones’ office. Her fiancé Dean had disappeared. Hannibal Jones, the troubleshooter, agreed to help her, even though he feared that his quarry had simply run off with another woman after taking most of Bea’s money.

  Little did Hannibal suspect that he would find Dean just before the man was accused of the bloody murder of a co-worker. Suddenly, Hannibal had a new client. Not only did the murder weapon and other evidence point to Dean, but Dean couldn’t seem to remember what happened. Police believed that Dean might be following in the footsteps of his own mother, who had been convicted of killing Dean’s father. Or was Dean covering for his mother, now out of prison and considered a possible serial killer.

  The trail leads from Washington DC to Las Vegas and even to Germany, where Hannibal stumbles upon a third murder which seems linked to Dean’s life. The web of murder also ties Dean to Joan, his sexy female boss, as well as the man Dean is accused of murdering. The killings have destroyed the lives connected to them, friends and family who represent the murder’s collateral damage. It soon becomes clear that Hannibal will have to solve all three cases in order to clear Dean’s name.