American Criminal

by Shawn William Davis

  Ray pushed Jones down on the steps and loomed above him.

  “You’ve forgotten already? It’s only been two and a half years since you helped put me away.”

  Jones’s glassy eyes stared at Ray’s face for several seconds without recognition. Then, Ray saw Jones’s mouth drop open as his eyes widened.

  “Burnside? I heard you were killed in prison,” Jones said, trying to get to his feet.

  Ray pushed him back down so he was sitting on the steps.

  “You heard right. Burnside was killed in prison. I told you – I’m his ghost.”

  The color drained from Jones’s flushed face.

  “I’m Burnside’s ghost come for revenge. Are you ready to meet God and be judged for your sins?” Ray asked in a low voice.

  “Look, I was only following orders. I-”

  Ray’s right fist shot out - as if under its own volition - and struck Jones in the right cheek. Jones sprawled back onto the landing. Ray pulled him back up with his left hand and hit him again in the forehead with his right fist. He was careful not to hit him too hard because he wanted him to be conscious when he killed him.

  Pausing, Ray glanced around the neighborhood. It was eerily still and silent. The ex-cop pulled the gun out of the back of his pants and pointed the barrel at Jones’s forehead.

  “Hey, wait!” Jones said, raising his arms in a “surrender” gesture.

  “Why should I?” Ray asked

  “They said if I didn’t testify against you, they would kill me!” Jones exclaimed.

  A lightning bolt of rage flashed through Ray’s mind and he smashed Jones in the nose with the butt of the pistol. He heard a sickening crack and Jones’s hands flew up to his face as blood gushed from the wound. Ray raised the pistol toward Jones’s forehead as he cowered back on the steps. Ray hesitated. Was killing him the right thing to do? This pathetic excuse for a man had cost him two and a half years of hell for a crime he didn’t commit, but Ray was still alive. He had survived.

  Maybe I’ll just give Jones a severe beating, but leave him alive, Ray thought. That way, my conscience will rest easy and I won’t return to the nightmares of the past.

  Ray thought about what Jones would do if he left him beaten, but alive. Jones would go straight to Pierce and Devlin and tell them Ray Burnside was alive, well, and roaming free through the streets of NYC looking for revenge. The strike team would be on their guard and then begin hunting him. They would have a description of him and an eyewitness to identify him. If the Tactical Team showed up at the Palladin Club and saw Ray working as a bouncer there, they could shoot him and say he resisted arrest. After all, he was a fugitive and they were cops. If Ray let Jones live, Jones would surely get him killed or thrown back in prison. He had no choice.

  Ray shoved the gun in the back of his pants and glared down at the wide-eyed fool cowering on the steps. Was it worth it to kill him? If he did, his nightmares would surely return. However, if he left Jones alive, Jones would be his downfall.

  Ray’s hands shot like lightning. Pulling Jones’s head toward him, Ray faced him towards the ground, and wrapped his arms around his neck. Jones gasped as Ray let rage take over his mind and tense up his muscles. Images from prison flooded Ray’s memory as he tightened his arms around Jones’s neck. Ray heard a sickening snap and Jones’s body went limp like a rag doll. Releasing Jones, Ray let him collapse in front of the stairs. It was done. He had left him no choice.

  Ray peered up at the house and saw the windows were still dark. Not even the front porch light was on. Jones had only shouted twice and apparently no one heard him. Ray glanced around the neighborhood to see if anyone else had noticed his handiwork. It was still eerily dark and silent like a painter’s still-life.

  Ray stared down at the body of his old comrade lying prone on the walkway like a crushed and broken mannequin. He felt a quick thrill of victory followed by a sickening pain in his gut. The lifeless body appalled him. Why had Jones forced him to kill? Why didn’t Jones tell Pierce and Devlin to “fuck off” and testify against them in court instead? If Jones had done the right thing, he would still be alive. A sick feeling spread outwards from his gut as Ray turned away from the corpse and walked slowly across the lawn toward the trees.

  Ray passed through the shadowy area beneath the trees and cut across the neighbor’s lawn to his parked car. Sliding into the driver’s seat, he started it up. He felt like he was moving in slow motion as he did a three-point turn and drove in the opposite direction.

  Ray felt a perverse mixture of elation and sickness. He was excited that he had finally achieved revenge against one of his foes, but sickened that he had to kill to do it. The night darkened shapes of trees and houses appeared surreal to him as he negotiated the dark suburban streets of Jones’s neighborhood.

  Chapter 55

  Lapse

  Burnside concentrated on driving the speed limit as he made his way through town. When he reached the small downtown area clustered with stores, he was especially careful. He eased up on the gas pedal as he spotted a cruiser in a dark gas station parking lot with its lights turned off. Glancing in the rearview mirror, Ray felt relieved when the cop didn’t pull out and follow him. The last thing he needed was an overzealous officer attempting to finish out his overnight shift by citing him for something mundane like a broken taillight.

  Ray wasn’t sure what he would do if a cruiser activated its flashing lights and tried to pull him over. If he was discovered in this area - at this time in the morning - he would automatically become a suspect in Jones’s murder. The stolen handgun rested on the passenger seat within easy reach, but that didn’t mean he would necessarily use it. But what other choice would he have? There was no way he was going back to prison.

  The digital clock on the dashboard read 5:08 AM. Burnside didn’t encounter any cars on the road until he reached the highway. As he pulled off the exit ramp, he joined several cars piloted by desperate wage slaves willing to get up ridiculously early for a paycheck. He still felt a faint trace of adrenaline in his system, but he was coming down fast. The pain in his gut felt worse, but he ignored it. Ray turned on the radio and tried to concentrate on rock music, but he found it annoying. He turned if off.

  Burnside was disappointed because he thought he would feel better about obtaining revenge on one of his old comrades. In prison, thoughts of vengeance had kept him going, but now that it was a reality, he felt let down.

  Unwelcome thoughts of Jones’s wife and kids broke through his mind’s defenses like an expert burglar cracking a safe. He remembered attending a cookout in the small backyard of Jones’s old house on the outskirts of the city several years ago. Jones had two kids: one boy around four years old and a girl about two years. The boy would be at least six now and the girl four. What would happen to them without a father to support them? Without their father’s paycheck, the family would have to move back to the city. Ray suddenly felt like he was going to throw up.

  Pulling into the breakdown lane, Ray leaned out the door. He heard cars rushing past him as he vomited onto the road.

  So much for that great steak I had for dinner.

  Apparently, vengeance was overrated. Instead of feeling elated, he felt sick. He spit out the last of the disgusting mixture, shut the door, and stared at the silhouetted buildings beyond the highway. The sky had lightened from black to midnight blue as dawn approached.

  Ray started the car rolling, glanced left, noticed the highway was clear, and pulled out of the breakdown lane. He cracked the window and lit a cigarette to take his mind off the nausea roiling in his stomach like a fetid brew. If there had been anything left in his stomach, he would have lost it. He felt slightly better after finishing his cigarette and arriving in front of his apartment building. Locating his designated spot, he parked. The sky had lightened from midnight blue to soft gray.

  Burnside exited the car and trudged toward the building’s main entrance. It felt like a failed liquid chemistry experiment was bubbling in
his stomach. Ignoring the pain, he ascended the steps, turned his key in the lock, and entered the lobby. His stomach lurched as he rode the elevator to the third floor. The doors opened and Ray dry-heaved several times as he entered the hallway.

  Arriving at his apartment, Burnside fumbled through his keys until he found the right one and turned it in the lock. He felt like he was arriving in a sacred sanctuary as he pushed the door open and stepped in. The journey from Jones’s house to his apartment was only about forty minutes, but it had felt like many hours. He was glad to be home.

  Ray flicked on the hallway light as he moved from the foyer to the kitchen. Opening the fridge, he took out a bottled water. Drinking deeply, he walked to the living room and collapsed into the recliner. As his system became hydrated, he began to feel better. The churning and bubbling in his stomach altered to a slight fizzing. Leaning back in the recliner, he closed his eyes and the world faded to black.

  Ray woke up to bright sunlight streaming in through the living room window.

  Oh fuck, what time is it?

  Checking the digital clock in the bedroom, he saw it was already 11:40 AM. He was supposed to be at work at 12 PM. There was no way in hell he was going to make it on time. Ray called the Club and left a brief message on Alicia’s answering machine to tell her he was running late.

  Great. The second day on the job and already I’m fucking up.

  Burnside felt like he had a nasty hangover. His head was pounding and his stomach still felt queasy. He took a quick shower and made some coffee. He also toasted a bagel and ate some cereal. His stomach felt better after he ate and his head felt better after he drank a cup of strong coffee. He got dressed, shaved, and lit a cigarette. Glancing at the digital clock, he saw it was 11:55. He was making good time. At this rate, he wouldn’t be more than a few minutes late.

  Ray donned his warm black topcoat and broke all the building’s rules by smoking his cigarette in the hallway, elevator, and foyer on his way out. He took one last drag and ground it out under his heel as the reached his car. He made sure he didn’t catch his topcoat in the door as he got in. Despite traffic, he made great time and arrived at 12:15 PM. Alicia smiled at him as he approached the bar.

  “Hey, big guy, I thought you said you were going to be late,” she said, winking at him.

  “Well, technically, I am,” Ray said, grinning sheepishly like a truant student as he went to the back office to hang up his topcoat and suit jacket. He emerged wearing the typical white dress shirt and black dress pants of a Palladin bartender.

  “I don’t consider anything under a half hour to be late,” Alicia said, playfully. “Did you go straight home after work last night?”

  Ray’s face turned pale at the mention of the previous night. His mind flashed to an image of the terrified expression on Jones’s face as he cowered on the front steps of his house. Ray’s stomach suddenly felt queasy again. He felt lightheaded as if he was going to pass out.

  “Hey, are you all right? You just turned as pale as a ghost,” Alicia said, as her eyebrows raised with apparent concern.

  “No, I just had a rough night. I ran into some old - I mean I visited an old haunt of mine and it didn’t work out so well.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Alicia said, placing her slim hand on Ray’s muscular shoulder. “As soon as I mentioned last night, all the color drained out of your face.”

  Ray’s mind flashed to images of Jones’s smiling kids at the Strike Team’s cookout three years ago. He imagined their expressions turning somber as they approached their father’s casket.

  “I had a bit of a rough time last night,” Ray, said, grabbing the bar for support as he was assailed by dizziness. “I just need a moment, I’ll be right back.”

  The ex-cop walked away from the bar and went into the back office. He pressed his face against his forearm as he leaned against the wood-panels and tried to pull himself together.

  Come on, you’re at work. Get yourself under control, he thought.

  He closed his eyes to stop tears from forming.

  I have to stop thinking about Jones’s kids, but Jones should have thought about them when he testified against me at the trial.

  Ray’s rationalization didn’t work. He felt despair creeping into his mind like a giant black spider.

  I need to think about what happened to me in prison to get back on track.

  Ray thought about his worst experience in prison: the shower rape. As he imagined the ugly, leering face of one of his attackers, his despair began to fade and rage began to build. He remembered the pain, the helplessness, and humiliation he felt as he was brutalized. He remembered thinking he was going to die. Then, he remembered leaning forward and clamping his teeth onto his antagonist’s nose like a Great White Shark clamping onto prey. The soft flesh tore surprisingly easily as the warm blood flowed over his face.

  “Ray, are you all right?” Alicia asked from the doorway.

  “I’m okay,” Ray said, keeping his face buried against his forearm so she wouldn’t see his bloodshot eyes. “I just need a minute, that’s all.”

  “Is there anything you want to talk about?” Alicia asked, concerned.

  “No, I’m fine. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  “Okay,” Alicia said, leaving the doorway and returning to the bar.

  Come on, get it together. You have to get it together, Ray thought.

  An image flashed into his mind of his hands wrapped around one of the rapist’s throats. The Warden told him afterward that his assailant had suffered brain damage from lack of oxygen.

  A sequence of unsettling images from prison flooded his mind like water from a burst dam. He imagined plunging a shank into the gut of the Skinhead leader in the Yard. He remembered warm liquid spilling over his fingers as he pressed the blade deeper into his flesh. He imagined scenes from the bloodbath that followed.

  The scene from the Yard faded and his mind flashed to an image of the Warden and the Internal Affairs Chief talking to him in the Warden’s office. They told him he only had to make it one more year and he would be sent to a medium-security prison. Only one year. His mind began to clear.

  Ray opened his eyes and focused on the brown, wood-paneled wall. His eyes drifted to the faux Classical paintings nearby.

  Water Lilies by Monet. French Impressionism at its finest.

  He didn’t know why an idea from an ancient art history class would enter his head, but it was welcome compared to images from prison flashing through his brain.

  Ray took a deep breath and felt better. Wiping his face, he glanced around the office. The office furniture caused him to remember his erotic dream from two nights ago. The images conjured up from the dream caused a crooked smile to form on his lips.

  I’m all right. I’m going to be fine.

  Squaring his shoulders, Burnside returned to the bar with Alicia. He apologized for his emotional lapse and murmured something about not feeling well. Alicia accepted his apology and continued his training as if nothing had happened. He was glad to set his mind to some practical work. After a few hours, he forgot all about his descent into despair. He concentrated on making drinks and serving customers. The easy routine soothed his mind. Alicia must have thought he needed some time alone because she went into the back office to do some paperwork.

  By 3:30 PM Ray still only had a handful of customers at the bar. He served everyone what they wanted and awaited further orders. The middle-aged businessman at the far end of the bar was sipping a gin and tonic like it was an exotic ambrosia. Two twenty-something females talked and laughed at the center of the bar as they drank Bacardi and Cokes. Ray leaned on the end of the bar near the office and gazed out at the club. At this time of day, the dance floor was as deserted as any wasteland. The restaurant appeared to be bustling though. Most of the tables appeared full and the waiters looked stressed-out as they came and went with orders.

  Ray’s eyes drifted toward the main doors; he spotted a hulking figure wearing a suit and
a thin figure dressed in blue approaching the doors from the sidewalk. The hulking figure pushed one of the doors open and Ray saw it was Big Frank. The blood froze in his veins when he saw the second figure step through the doors. It was a blue-uniformed cop.

  Even worse, there was something familiar about the cop. An instinctive dread hit Ray with the force of a battering ram. He thought his stomach had settled, but he started to feel queasy again. The cop was tall, thin, and wore glasses. He and Big Frank cut through the restaurant toward the bar. Ray felt his stomach drop as if he was ascending an elevator at a high rate of speed. The cop was none other than his old partner, Devlin, and he was moving toward him.

  Chapter 56

  Target

  Burnside turned to face the mirror on the back wall and watched the blue uniformed figure become steadily larger in the reflection. His heart hammered like an engine operating in the red. He hadn’t thought it was a good idea to bring his stolen handgun to work, so he had left it in the Camry under the passenger seat.

  Scanning a row of bottles, Ray picked up the heaviest looking one – a large clear bottle containing hundred-proof Smirnoffs vodka. He lowered the bottle slowly to his side until it was concealed behind the bar-top. Adrenaline pulsed through his system as he prepared to spin around and smash Devlin in the face if he got any closer.

  As Devlin moved to within twenty feet of the bar, he veered off suddenly toward the doorway containing the stairwell leading to Salducci’s office. Ray used his peripheral vision to watch Devlin and Frank disappear through the doorway. Ray thought he could actually feel his pulse slowing as he placed the large bottle of Smirnoffs back on the shelf.

  What the fuck is Devlin doing meeting with Salducci?

  After a few moments of contemplation, he came up with a theory. Devlin was a dirty cop. Burnside had always suspected that Devlin and the rest of the Strike Team had Underworld connections they used to launder stolen money and sell stolen drugs. How else were they able to get away with it for so long? If several hundred thousand dollars suddenly showed up in their bank accounts, it would be obvious they were on the take. Instead, they gave the money to the Mob to hold and picked it up a little at a time. That way, they wouldn’t attract attention. Maybe Devlin was the one assigned to pick up the cash.