Hawk's Revenge

by N. M. Catalano

  Leaving my money where it is, I place my jacket next to it, and pick up my drink.

  I’m not a drinker. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy drinking, I enjoyed it a little too much for a while, which is why I don’t do much of it now. I’d rather have a bottle of water, but that would get me thrown out of here faster than if I’d whipped out my dick and pissed on the floor. I need a reason to be here, and this is what they need to think it is. For now. So, I nurse it as I watch Bo and the doorman talk, looking straight at me. Bunch of pussies. I scan the room noncommittally, but take everyone in. There’s a tiny woman who’s talking to a man I’d bet my nuts is a cop, acting as if he’s God’s gift to women. He turns to the men with him at the table and says something. They all laugh, even the girl. But it’s fake, it’s obvious in the way her eyes drop to look at the floor and her shoulders tense nominally. That guy right there is a first class prick. The douche slaps the girl on the ass and barks out something. She nods and heads toward the bar. Jo meets her and they exchange maybe four words. The girl reaches over and grabs a tray. She’s getting the dickbags drinks. Sauntering back with a tray full of booze, and no money exchanged, she swishes her hips with a provocative smile on her pretty face, and slides in next to Mr. Dickhead, and makes sure her perky young tits are on display for the perv who’s probably old enough to be her father.

  Jesus Christ. I turn my head because I don’t trust myself not to give him the ass kicking he deserves.

  Bo’s making his way across the room with that shit ass smile on his face. “Find you a home away from home?” he slaps me on the back like we’re best buddies.

  No, but you will if you keep that shit up. On the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico.

  “Seems that way,” I grunt, forcing the fiery liquid past the bullshit reply.

  Play nice, Hawk.

  I practically snarl. Shut the fuck up.

  Honestly, if I were normal, and if this place wasn’t a shithole, this is exactly the kind of place I’d frequent. Redneck honky tonk with a dash of biker bad ass to keep things interesting. And for a feminine black guy, the dude knows how to mix the right music.

  But I’m not, and this bar sure as hell isn’t.

  There’s so much filth in here, you’d choke to death if the Southern congeniality didn’t plaster a mask on the whole shitshow.

  “How long you in town for?” Bo anchors himself to the spot he’s standing with his legs spread, and his arms folded across his chest.

  Great, small talk, my favorite past time.

  I can feel Jo’s eyes burning a hole into my profile. I think my buddy Bo notices too, because his eyes flick to her.

  I raise the glass to my lips. “Not sure yet.”

  “Got no family back home?”

  I stopped reacting to questions like that a long time ago. “Nope.”

  He nods smiling a frown. “Okay. So, what’s been keeping you busy?” he continues with the friendly interrogation.

  I place the glass on the bar. “Nothing.”

  “You’re not much of a talker, are you?” he laughs and gives me another slap on the back. It’s all I can do not to slap him with my fist. I ignore him. “Jo,” he shrugs his chin at her, “give my friend Hawk here a drink on me.”

  I know Jo hasn’t gone further away than she’d be able to eavesdrop on our conversation, so it’s no surprise when I hear her hrrmph. “Sure, if you actually paid for something.” I’m not finished with the one I have, so she places a shot glass upside down in front of me.

  “Not necessary,” I mumble, because he’s an asshole for thinking he’s actually doing something impressive.

  “Sure it is,” he places a hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. I’d like to snap his fucking hand off. “I want to make you feel welcome.”

  Give me a break.

  “Gotta make sure your girlfriend is happy,” Jo’s sarcasm is a whole lot better than his bullshit.

  “Make sure you take care of him,” his pathetic display of assholeness doesn’t stop.

  “Oh, please,” Jo drawls. I know she’s got to be rolling her eyes, because I sure as hell want to.

  “Hah! Have a good time, Hawk. I’ve got to get back to work,” he gives me another squeeze on my shoulder.

  I’m going to have to burn this shirt because I’ll never get all the bullshit off of it. I can’t stomach anymore of that, so I turn, place my forearms on the bar, and shake my head as he walks away.

  Jo’s serving a customer, but her gaze keeps coming back to me, full of questions and accusations. Can’t say that I blame her, because that whole thing was ridiculous.

  Why the hell does she put up with that shit?

  The old douches toy got a round of drinks for the table, and didn’t pay a dime. Limp dick Bo acts like some kind of privileged kid, flaunting some imaginary nobility that gives him the right to do whatever he wants. Or is it imaginary? It sure didn’t seem as if it were fake.

  Jo’s back there busting her ass. For what? Or more importantly, why?

  I grab the shot glass and fling it into the garbage. It shatters when it makes contact with the empty beer bottles inside. Jo jerks her head around and glares at me.

  “Are you having some kind of psychotic episode? If you are, you need to take that down the road. There’s enough crazy in here,” she snaps at me, her eyes angry slits and ready to shoot daggers at me.

  “No,” I reply casually as I tilt the glass up and empty its contents.

  Her spine straightens and she squares her shoulders as she comes at me, ready to battle. Her fire and intensity slam into me like a sledgehammer pounding on my impenetrable I-don’t-give-a-fuck veneer, completely out of nowhere and extremely unusual. And, strangely enough, not unwelcome. “You want to tell me what your problem is then?” She’s got her hands on her hips, ready to go head to head with me.

  Apparently, there’s nothing I’d like more because that right there looks sexy as fuck.

  I point a finger at the trash can. “That was my problem. Now it’s not.” I slide the empty glass toward her. This drink I want.

  Because I will not be a part of this sleazy game.

  This is her bar, and she just lost a shit ton of money.

  She drops her eyes from my face to the spot in front of me, minus one upside down shot glass, then she drags them to the trash can. When her eyes slowly meet mine again, she cocks an eyebrow at me. I shrug my head to the side. This time when she approaches me to take the empty glass, her gaze is inquisitive. I’ve shocked her, and I’d bet my ass she doesn’t know what to make of it. When she returns my now full glass, I place a fingertip on the pile of money and glide it slowly towards her, never breaking our stare. Eyes still locked, she eases out a bill from underneath my finger. Before she takes it to pay for my drink, she raises that eyebrow at me again.

  You sure you want do this?

  You bet your sweet little ass I want to do this. The corner of my mouth kicks up in a smirk.

  Her eyebrow lifts a little higher, but I can see a smile playing on her lips. You’re an asshole.

  I wink at her. The best kind.

  She shakes her head, takes the money, and walks to the register, losing the battle against the smirk. I shouldn’t, but I like it. Too damn much.

  Not fucking good. At all.

  When she turns back to bring my change, she freezes with her eyes fixed on something, or someone, behind me. Slowly, I look over my shoulder.

  That’s got to be the motherfucker.

  The boss.

  His eyes are on me. And Jo.

  The man reeks of money, a lot of money. It stinks so bad I can smell him from here. Even from this distance, he emanates power and danger, the kind of danger that has no conscience. His stare is calculating, but without emotion. And above all else, he is in control. This man I’m familiar with, maybe not him personally, but his brand of evil. I’ve seen the wreckage of the destruction that surrounds him, I’ve witnessed the carnage he revels in, and I’ve experienced the atr
ocities of what made him what he is.

  Nice to meet you. My hands curl into tight fists, the only outward sign of how badly I want to have them wrapped around his neck.

  Jo clutches the cash tightly in her grip before she snaps out of whatever fucking hold that guy has on her. She slams my money on the bar and walks to the other end, putting as much distance she can between her and here. Or him.

  It shouldn’t, but it makes me want to pull her out of this cesspool. She’s not one of them, she can’t be, not from the way she acts, but she’s no less a part of whatever is happening here. And I think it’s safe for me to assume, not willingly, not from her reaction to the boss.

  Glancing behind me again, I see he’s gone. Probably back in his hole.

  I knew I was going to shake her up, but I didn’t expect it to be like that.

  CHAPTER 6

  The car pulls up to the pier at the near empty docks. The sky is crystal clear and there’s a slight breeze, a perfect day to be lucky enough to be near the water. There are two men waiting on the wharf dressed identically, black t-shirt, grey cargo pants, and black boots. And each of them have the word Enforcer tattooed on their upper arm. The black Mercedes slows to a stop in front of the empty Crown Victoria. The occupant is outside the car talking to the men, dressed in a tan suit and wearing sunglasses. One of the guards breaks away and approaches the car, then opens the back door, the blacked-out tinted windows don’t open to reveal who’s inside the vehicle. But it doesn’t have to. Frank Castillo steps from the car and stops to look up at the sky.

  “Taylor, strange finding you here.”

  The man in the tan suit is facing Castillo, his posture poised with his hands in his pockets. “Just checking on things.”

  Castillo pins him with his gaze. “I don’t recall asking you to.”

  Taylor’s lips flatten as his jaw tenses. “I’ve got to get back to the precinct.” He walks back to his car as he pulls out his phone.

  Castillo watches the car as it exits the gate. “Has the shipment arrived?” he asks no one in particular as he straightens his grey tie.

  The guard still standing at the foot of the pier replies, “No, sir, we received word that it should be here within the hour.”

  “Then we have plenty of time.” Frank Castillo approaches the docked ship. “Has he said anything?”

  Another man wearing the same attire as the other two comes to the ship’s rail, opens the gateway, and Frank Castillo along with his associates go on board. “No, not really, but we waited for you to really get started.”

  “Excellent. Is everything prepared?” Once on the ship, Frank walks along until he gets to a door.

  Lifting his arm with the same Enforcer tattoo as the other men, he gives Frank entry inside. “Yes,” is all he says.

  Down a short hallway is a set of stairs that leads to the lower level of the vessel. Frank’s dress shoes are the only ones that make a sound as they all descend. It’s dark and the only other noises are the machines that keep the boat operating. Frank doesn’t wait for anyone at the door he’s now facing, he pulls it open and steps inside the room. There are no windows, the only light comes from a single bulb in a metal cage hanging from the center of the ceiling. On the other side of the room is a bloodied and beaten naked man also hanging from the ceiling, his swaying matches that of the bulb. The same man that had gotten thrown out of Joe’s Place.

  He moans, “I told you I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “Jimmy,” Frank states smoothly, “I apologize for all of this,” he sweeps his hand out. “But you understand we have to set an example every now and again. I’m sure you don’t mind taking one for the team, right? Even if you aren’t responsible, whoever is would surely not be able to endure what you’re going through. I’ll make it worth your while.”

  Jimmy coughs as spit and blood dribble from his mouth. “Sure, boss, whatever you need, I’m the man.” His voice is low and labored.

  “I knew I could count on you.” Frank Castillo circles the hanging man slowly.

  The room reeks of sweat and blood, but that doesn’t seem to bother Castillo. This is where he comes alive.

  Coming round to stand in front of Jimmy, Castillo raises his face to look into his. “Who paid you to tell them about the shipment? If you tell me you had nothing to do with it, you will not be happy.”

  Jimmy gathers enough strength to shake his head no. He’s been in this position for almost eighteen hours and it’s taking its toll on him.

  “I swear to you, it wasn’t me!”

  Turning, Frank grabs a baseball bat propped up against the wall next to the table laid out with saws, blades, hooks, rope, and other materials intended to be used for torture.

  WHACK! The bat lands on one of Jimmy’s knees.

  Screams of agony echo off the walls and reverberate throughout the air, so loud they’re daggers piercing everyone’s ears.

  Frank lifts the bat and presses it into Jimmy’s stomach, stilling his frame mid-swing. “You’ve got one more leg, you can still walk out of here. Who was it?”

  “JESUS CHRIST! IT WASN’T ME!”

  Frank lowers the bat and shakes his head. “I’ve got to give it to you, you’ve got some balls. Frankly, I didn’t think you had it in you.” Frank raises the wooden stick and slams it into Jimmy’s other leg.

  “GAAAAAHHHH!” he wails as urine seeps down his legs.

  “Last chance, Jimmy. Who took my drugs?” Frank states almost casually.

  Frank loves this part of his job. To him, this is one of the most crucial parts of having power, showing them who has it all, reminding them what would happen if they betrayed him.

  That’s an excuse. Truth be told, he gets off on it, it feeds his demons, his unquenchable hunger for violence and control. There’s no other feeling like owning a life, that precious God given gift that he can take whenever and however he chooses. It’s the ultimate drug, and nobody has that power but him.

  “Lower the chain, boys,” Frank tells the men behind him.

  The clanging of the large links mixes with Jimmy’s whimpering as he’s slowly lowered. A gut wrenching wail emanates from deep inside him when his feet land on the floor, pushing his now useless lower legs into his crushed knee caps.

  Frank brings his face near Jimmy’s head. He wants to make sure he hears him through his fog of pain. “I know you know who intervened with the shipment. Tell me who it was and this can all be over.”

  “I swear I didn’t turn on you,” he chokes out. “But if it was anybody, it was Dave.”

  Frank holds out his hand. “Give me a knife.”

  One of the Enforcers places a serrated hunting knife into Franks outstretched palm.

  “Please no,” Jimmy cries.

  “It’s alright, boy. Tell me why I should believe you?” Frank’s voice is soothing.

  Jimmy sobs quietly.

  Frank jabs the blade into his thigh and pulls it upward through the thick, fleshy part of Jimmy’s thigh. “I asked you a question.”

  Jimmy’s head falls back as another wail rocks his body. “Because he’s been seeing the DJ. I think they’re up to something.”

  “Dios mio,” Frank laughs. He turns to face the three guards behind him. “Did you know Dave was a fag?”

  “No, boss,” the three respond.

  “I SWEAR TO GOD!” Jimmy cries.

  Frank drops the blade on the floor. “I believe you, Jimmy. There’s no reason for you to lie to me now.” He walks to the table, picks up a pair of pliers and another knife, this one smooth and sharp. “That’s why I’m going to show you some mercy.” He holds out the pliers to one of his men, then instructs them, “Hold his mouth open.”

  The three Enforcers surround Jimmy as he shakes his head no and quietly sobs.

  Frank stands in front of him as they pry open Jimmy’s mouth and wedge a guard in to hold his jaw wide.

  “The thing is, Jimmy, I hate snitches,” Frank tells him, tilting his head to the side.
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  The man with the pliers pulls out Jimmy’s tongue and holds it taut. With one flick of his wrist, Frank slices it completely off. Instantly blood pours from Jimmy’s open mouth as he lets out a garbled agonized scream.

  Frank drops the knife to the floor to lay with the other one, along with Jimmy’s severed tongue, then picks up a fresh clean towel from the table of tools. He wipes his hands as he heads for the door. “Take him out to sea and cut off his arms. Then throw him overboard.”

  Frank leaves the room to let his men finish the job. As he walks back up the stairs, he’s furious. He doesn’t like not knowing what his men are up to. He couldn’t give a shit if they fucked donkeys or the Easter bunny. He wants to know.

  Because if he didn’t know one thing, then it’s quite possible there’s more he’s unaware of.

  Control.

  He requires it in everything. Once that slips, even a fraction, then the power begins to go with it.

  That is something he will not let happen. He’s worked too hard for too long to let anyone, especially not some cocksucking faggot, take from him.

  Shame too. He really liked the DJ, Dave is replaceable. He gets into his waiting Mercedes; Bo is at the wheel. As the car makes its way out of the docks, Frank tells him, “Bring Hawk to me.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Hawk

  I’ve been in Gulfport for three weeks. Whomever is in charge has got things operating like a fine tuned machine. The man I saw only one time in the bar. Everything works like clockwork. I haven’t been able to identify the mysterious boss, but I’ve seen him from a distance since then. He’s sharp, loaded, and is always protected.

  So I’m out driving around, it always clears my head, but then again, so does my work. It keeps me focused on one thing only: the mission. Nothing else exists.

  Today the purpose is to find the bossman’s lair.

  Joe’s Bar is a convenient place to conduct business. A dive joint no one would give a fuck about. It’s a public location where no one would question a wide variety of people coming and going, and they all seem to be connected, no matter their social status or profession.