by Ty Johnston
Chapter 6: Fell on Black Days
“What the holy fuck were you guys doing?” Roberto Carcinni is not happy with me and Tony. That’s a bad thing. It’s bad enough when your boss is mad at you, but when your boss is the kind of guy who can fire you by making you permanently disappear, that makes the situation all that much worse.
We try to explain the next day, opting for the truth.
Which doesn’t make Roberto any happier.
“So you guys took it upon yourselves to put a hit on this Mike Varl character?” Roberto asks.
Our eyes glued to the carpet at our feet, Tony and me slowly look up and nod.
The boss slams a fist against his desk. “You fucking idiots! You two know better! Nobody gets hit unless an order comes down ... and no order came down!”
Yeah, see, this is just the kind of thing that makes guys permanently disappear.
Roberto slaps his desk again, not as hard this time, then turns away from us to stare out at the city beyond his window. “I swear to God, if we didn’t have these troubles going on with Sardona, I’d have the two of you sunk to the bottom of the ocean or something.”
Do I hear a hint of a chance at survival here?
Roberto turns and glances at us. “But as things stand, I need every soldier I can get.”
I breath easier, and I sense Tony does the same at my side. We’re going to make it out of this one. But that doesn’t mean it’ll be easy. No, we’ll have to do something to make things right.
“Okay,” Roberto says. “You guys owe me now, so I’ve got something I need you to do.”
“Anything, boss,” Tony says.
“Yeah, anything,” Roberto says. “Damn straight, anything.”
He’s right. At this point, if he wants us to gang fuck a bunch of polar bears, we’re going to do it. It’s either that, or we end up feeding the fishies under some pier somewhere.
“Okay,” Roberto says again, “since you dunderheads have tipped off the Sardona gang, we don’t have to tip-toe around quite so much. It ain’t a full-scale war, not yet, but hostilities have arisen. At least you two didn’t whack anybody, ’cause then we would have a war on our hands.”
“What do you want us to do, boss?” Tony asks.
Roberto yanks open a drawer of his desk and pulls out a small revolver, then tosses it to me. “You guys can make this up to me by pulling a little job. No fuck ups, understand?”
“Sure, boss,” I say with a nod.
Tony nods, too.
“Alright.” Roberto sits behind his desk again, his blood pressure dropping, his demeanor growing calm like his usual self. “There’s a hood, a nobody, a punk, who has opened up a crack den down by the docks. The place is little more than a flop house for idiots who want to smoke up, but we can’t have this in our territory, least of all because we don’t control it. Far as I can tell, this guy is a solo operator, no ties with Sardona.”
“So he’s an open target?” Tony asks.
“That’s right,” Roberto says with a grin. “Shut this guy down. I don’t care how you do it. Take him out, if you have to. Just close him down. Do whatever you go to do.”
This had Tony and me both grinning. We were being given free range on this job. It made things easier for us, and fun. We needn’t worry about pulling any punches.
“Now get.” Roberto waves us away, obviously finished with us. “I’ll text you guys the punk’s name and location.”
We get, both Tony and me thankful we hadn’t caught more shit than we had. Really, we could have wound up with holes in the back of our heads, but Roberto had saved our asses. It might not look that way, but it’s the truth. Me and Tony, yeah, we’d screwed up. And we knew it. Usually, screws up were done away with. Roberto, he must have talked down somebody higher up to save us from the fire. Now, we owed Roberto, big time. We would not screw up this next job.
Down on the street, we took a little, beat-up sedan saved just for jobs like ours. Tony’s sports car would stand out too much, especially down by the docks, and while a taxi cab could blend in just about anywhere in the city, we were thinking it might be getting known that I drove a cab, especially after our blunder with black hoodie and Varl.
I curse under my breath as I climb behind the wheel of the sedan. I still wish we had gotten that black hoodie bastard.
We aren’t cruising very long when Tony’s cell phone beeps a few times. He checks the screen, then smiles.
“We got the name and address,” he says, then gives both to me.
I recognize the address, being a common spot down by the river, and the name also rings a bell. “Smokey Tobins?” I say. “I remember that guy from way back. Used to be a gangbanger. Thought he’d retired from all that shit.”
“Guess not,” Tony says as we move along the streets, heading for the river. “Or maybe he’s on his own nowadays.” He shrugs. “Or maybe the guy just needs money. Things are tough all over.”
I shrug back. I remember Smokey being a bit of a hard ass back in the day, but he never crossed the Family in any way that I ever knew of. Too bad he’d crossed a line now. Too bad for him.
When we get down to the docks district, it’s late in the afternoon, end-of-the-day time for most of the blue-collar guys working down there. It looks kind of funny, us being the only car heading into the area while everybody else is heading home for the day. But that means we’ll have the place to ourselves, other than maybe a security guard or two or some guy working overtime, which don’t happen much these days because companies aren’t willing to pay for overtime.
Soon enough we’re cruising between long, low buildings made of aluminum sheeting, most of these warehouses for stuff unloaded from the docks on our right. Because we’re mostly on our own, it doesn’t take long to find the crack house. I spot it before we even get to it.
There’s a half dozen guys strung out across the front of the place, most of them looking like they’ve seen better days. Hell, they all look like zombies, bad skin, dirty clothes, glazed looks in their eyes.
“That’s the place.” Tony points as I pull the car up front, then turn us around so we’re facing the way out, just in case there’s serious trouble.
Climbing out of our beater, we ponder the two doors into the place, a glass one just around the corner from where we’re parked and a large, metal roll-up door right in front of us. The glass door we’d seen when I’d pulled in. The big roll-up door has a padlock on it.
“Around the side,” Tony says, heading for the glass door while pulling his .38 from a back pocket.
I bring out my own revolver and follow. I keep telling myself, No screw ups this time. No screw ups this time.
As we round the corner for the glass door, Tony shoves one of the junkies out of the way. It’s almost enough to distract me. I almost don’t see the big goon on the other side of the glass door, his hands frantically working at locking the door from the inside.
I don’t give him the chance.
I raise my gun and fire twice, sending the junkies and zombies scattering for safety as my thunder cracks through the glass and sends the big guy there reeling backward into shadows.
Tony takes it all in like a champ. My shooting doesn’t even phase him. He jumps forward, grabs the door with the keys still hanging from the lock on the other side, and yanks it open. We rush inside.
What we find is an office room of sorts, desk with chair behind it on the left, florescents overhead shedding light on the situation. Now that we’re in, I can see the big guy I shot squirming around on the ground, trying to crawl behind the desk. He’s a big boy, his black turtleneck almost as dark as his skin.
We hear shuffling from a closed door on the other side of the room, but for the moment we ignore it. I move around to the wounded guy and use a tennis shoe to roll him over on his back. He’s not too bad off, actually, my bullets having caught him in the left shoulder. He groans as he lands on his back, his eyes closed.
But then his eyes pop open as he hear
s the click of my gun’s hammer. He stares up into the barrel only inches from his face.
“Where’s Smokey?” I ask.
He says nothing for a moment, then his eyes flicker to the closed door.
“Thanks,” I say. I almost move away from the guy, but then I point my gun in his face again and he cringes.
I almost pull the trigger, but decide against it. I’ve only got four shots left and didn’t bring extra ammo. This is supposed to be a small job. So, instead of finishing the guy, I tell him, “Don’t be here when we get back.”
He nods.
I give him a slight kick, not enough to really hurt, just to show him we mean business.
Then I turn around and find Tony already on the other side of that closed door. His .38 is raised, ready for action. We trade glances, then I nod.
He reaches down from the side and grabs the door knob, twists.
A blast like something straight out of hell batters through the door. A shotgun blast. A few pellets scrape along Tony’s right arm, causing him to flinch back and scream like a mother fucker, but he seems relatively whole. He’s lucky that doors is old and thick, made of real wood.
Somebody is cursing on the other side of that door, but I can’t hear them despite the big hole there now, my ears still ringing. I do something stupid and stick my revolver through the big hole in the door and start pulling the trigger.
I get off two shots before I hear a scream on the other side. I got lucky. Very lucky. The punk could have cut me in half with that shotgun. But I don’t ponder my luck for long. Yanking open the door, I jump through and roll to one side, just in case there’s somebody else with a piece.
There’s not, so my luck is still holding.
I’m kneeling, my gun extended, an open warehouse in front of me, metal tables stretching into the distance. Right in front of me is a dead guy, not Smokey, a bullet in the middle of his bald head. Yeah, I got real lucky.
Down to only two bullets, I slip my revolver into a pocket and grab the dead guy’s pump shotgun, Tony stepping into the doorway right behind me.
“You okay?” I ask, looking up and back at my partner.
He’s still wincing, but he’s standing strong, his gun arm ready to play. He nods.
I stand with the shotgun and we both survey the room. There’s nobody else here.
But there is an open door showing outside light at the far end of the building.
“Damn,” Tony says.
“Get to the car and circle around,” I tell him. “I’m going after him.”
Tony voices some kind of response, something about him barely being able to drive with only one good arm, but I don’t pay attention to it. I’m off and running. We can’t screw this up. Smokey has got to go down today.
It takes longer than I’d like to get to the other side of the long building, but when I reach the door I scramble right on through it, shotgun leading the way. I find myself in a nearly empty parking lot behind the warehouse, only a couple of old, beat-up pick-up trucks parked near me.
A squeal of tires brings my head around.
At the far end of the lot is a little blue car careening around a corner, heading toward the front of the building. I say a brief prayer, hoping Tony is there, because we don’t need a repeat of what happened with black hoodie.
But before I can act, there’s our car, Tony behind the wheel. He’s driving like a crazy man, and slams our sedan right into the front of that little blue car. There’s a crunching sound and both vehicles come to a halt, gray smoke springing up from beneath the crumpled hood of the blue car.
I spare a glance at those two trucks near me, wishing I had the keys or the time to hot wire them, but then I take off at another run, heading toward Tony and the crashed cars. Seems like all I do is run anymore.
Running and running, I see no movement from either our sedan or the blue car. Until I’m about halfway there and my lungs are nearly out of air.
The driver’s door of the blue car springs open and a foot comes out. Then a guy stands behind the door, shaking his head as if fighting off being dazed.
It’s Smokey Tobins. Even at a distance, even with more than five years since I’ve seen this guy, I recognize him.
He’s not looking in my direction. Might not even know I’m there.
Which is fine with me.
I slow to a jog and raise the shotgun to a shoulder.
Smokey is swaying on his feet, but he’s slowly moving away from his car, a semi-auto pistol hanging from one hand.
In a movie or something, I might scream right about now, before I blow the guy away, but this ain’t a movie or something. I ain’t giving this guy any kind of heads up.
I pull the trigger.
The blast goes wide mostly, but manages to zing Smokey in the elbow of his gun hand. I was too far away for a shotgun. But at least I’ve winged him.
He curses and turns toward me, slipping his auto from his bad arm to his other hand. He raises the gun. I jack another shell into my shotgun.
Neither of us gets the chance to fire.
Because suddenly there’s a barrage of bullets coming from the other side of me and Tony’s sedan. Good old Tony. Shot and been in a car crash, and he’s still going strong.
Smokey is caught totally off guard, Tony’s bullets smacking into his side and back. Blood splatters and our target goes down. Just for good measure, as I run up to the guy, I stomp on his neck.
Standing there breathing heavily, I stare down to make sure Smokey is no more. He’s dead. Good. Then I raise my eyes and look to Tony. He’s still got his .38 extended, but it’s aimed toward the ground now. He’s leaning against the frame of our car behind the open door. He doesn’t look good.
“Okay, man, look,” I say as I work my way between the two crashed cars, “we’ll get you to a Family doc, and you’ll be in good shape in no time.”
Tony looks up at me and grins. His shot arm is now caked in blood. He must have taken a worse hit than I thought. And there’s a big bump on his forehead, which must’ve happened in the crash. God only knows what else is wrong with him.
I’m getting ready to rush forward and help him back into our car when another shot rings out.
I drop to the concrete without thinking.
Then Tony falls down next to me. There’s a hole the size of a silver dollar in the back of his head, or what’s left of his head, most of the front having been blown away.
I don’t have time to curse or scream or anything because another half dozen shots come my way. Fortunately there’s enough of the cars between me and the shooter. Bullets graze across the hoods and bounce off the concrete near me, but none hit home.
Then I hear running. Someone running away.
Raising the shotgun with me, I come up behind our car. At the other end near the front of the warehouse building is that glass door, now hanging open. Sitting on the ground next to the door with his back against the outside wall is the guy in the black sweater who I had shot twice. He doesn’t appear to be moving.
In the distance, I hear a car engine kick over, then wheels peeling out and away.
Whoever whacked Tony and tried to whack me, he was getting away.
For a moment I lose it. I take off running toward the front of the building, the glass door, and the guy sitting there. I’m ready to kill, to kill anybody. I just don’t give a shit. Tony was an old, old friend. We went way back. He was there for me, the only person who was there for me, when I got out of the joint. He got me set back up with the Carcinnis, got me a place to stay, and a job. You don’t find friends like that often. Somebody had to pay.
As I near the guy sitting by the door, my rage drifts away. The guy has been shot a couple of more times. His chest is a mess of gore soaking through his dark sweater.
But he is still alive.
Don’t ask me how, but the guy is breathing, just barely. Red bubbles are forming on his lips.
I take to a knee next to him.
“Who did i
t?” I ask.
His eyes roll around in his head, trying to focus.
“Tell me who did it and I’ll get you to a hospital,” I say, frantic, meaning my words. If this guy can identify who killed Tony, then I’ll owe him.
His lips move, but nothing comes out. He’s struggling to speak, his life fleeing his body. Finally, he mutters something, but I don’t catch it.
“What?” I ask, putting my ear up to his lips. “What did you say?”
He mumbles a little, then, finally, “... a black hoodie.”
They are the last words he ever says. His head rolls over to one side and his eyes roll back in his head.
I stand there and look down on the dead guy, the joints of my fingers going white as they tighten on the shotgun I’m holding.
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