by Bill Brewer
Slapping Diegert’s hand from his chest, Uri’s incredulous expression found its voice.
“You can’t stop me from coming in, and if you’re worried about the fifteen dollars, you can fuck yourself.”
Diegert saw Uri’s hand slip into his pocket, and he watched as the angry man withdrew his hand in a fist. The dull yellow of the brass caught Diegert’s eye as the fist was thrust at his head. Diegert tipped his head back as the fist blazed by. He grabbed the man’s forearm, twisted it behind his back, and pressed on the radial nerve. The pressure on the nerve forced Uri’s fist to open. Diegert swept the man’s hand, stripping the brass knuckles off his fingers. He shoved the man forward into a cigarette machine. The angry man awkwardly spun around to face Diegert, who now had the brass knuckles on his fist and a fuck you smirk on his face.
Diegert dropped into a balanced stance and gave no sign of retreat as he squared off against the Russian, who was now armed with only his skin. The patrons at the door formed a ring around the two combatants, Diegert said, “You can leave now and come back another night.”
The Russian’s angry expression showed the fear of embarrassment as his situation had become the center of attention for a growing crowd. He circled Diegert, seeing the brass knuckles were on his enemy, who seemed to be without fear.
Diegert stood up out of his fighting stance. “You are free to go.” He extended his hand in front of him, motioning toward the door.
Uri’s brow formed into a V as his angry eyes peered at Diegert. Realizing the Russian wouldn’t be taking the gentleman’s way out, Diegert dropped his right foot back and brought his left hand up. Uri put his weight into a swing with his right. Diegert leaned back and grabbed the big guy’s arm, pulling him off balance while delivering a bone-crushing strike with the brass knuckles to the temple of the belligerent bar crasher. Uri’s consciousness vacated his brain as his bulk fell to the floor. Diegert grabbed the back of the big guy’s leather coat and dragged him outside.
Igor Dimitrov was stunned to see how quickly his best muscle had gone down at the hands of Diegert. The economy of movement and the lethality of force the young man displayed impressed the mobster. He couldn’t recall ever seeing a one-punch knockout in a bar fight. Skills like that could be very useful, thought the boss of the local Russian Bratva.
The next day when Diegert showed up early for his evening shift, Tracy Vandersmith told him, “Hey, slugger, Terry told me to send you to his office when you got here.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me, he didn’t look happy.”
Knocking on Buscetti’s office door, Diegert called out softly, “Hello.”
“Yeah, get on in here.”
Buscetti got up and closed the door as he directed Diegert to sit down next to his cluttered desk. “Listen, about last night—”
“Hey, he had it coming.”
“I’m not worried about fucking Uri. No, Mr. Dimitrov has asked that you…rough up a guy here tonight.”
“Rough him up?”
“Yeah—put a beating on a guy who’s been encroaching on the business, you know.”
“The business?”
“Come on…you know Dimitrov runs the Russian Bratva. He’s pushing meth and heroin into Austin, and he’s putting the squeeze on the Mexicans.”
“Oh… Yeah.”
“Well, he wants you to beat up the spic the Mexicans send here every night to spy on ’em. I sent his picture to your phone. Keep an eye on him, and when he goes outside, put a beating on him. Dimitrov has a thousand dollars for you when it’s done.”
A quizzical look crossed Diegert’s face as he thought about assaulting someone for money.
“Come on—come on, I need you to do this, and you need the money,” said Buscetti impatiently.
“Alright…but I get the money up front.”
Pulling a thick envelope from his desk drawer, Buscetti said, “I got the money right here. When the job is done, it’s yours. Now go get ready. The High Note Drifters are playing again tonight, so it should be busy at the door.”
As he left the office, Diegert checked his phone to see a picture of a medium-size Mexican guy smoking a cigarette while leaning against a Camaro.
As Diegert walked out into the bar, Tracy shouted, “Hey, Mr. Tough Guy, if you can go beating up people for the entertainment of the bar, how about you help me by stocking the fridge with beer?”
“If it entertains you, I certainly will,” said Diegert as he opened the case and began filling the shelves.
The High Note Drifters' loyal following filled the bar by the end of their first set. Diegert noted that the Mexican guy’s name was Miguel Lopez, or at least that’s what his Texas driver’s license said. Lopez had paid the cover without incident and eventually got a stool at the far end of the bar. From time to time, Diegert would observe the guy, and it really appeared like he was doing nothing. He drank his beer slowly, smiled at people, but didn’t talk much and was otherwise easily forgotten.
As the evening wore on, Lopez crossed the bar, exiting right in front of Diegert while shaking a cigarette out of his pack. Buscetti appeared at his side and told Diegert, “I got the door.” He nodded toward the exit, and Diegert followed Lopez outside.
Lopez had his cigarette burning as soon as he stepped onto the sidewalk, the nicotine sending a wave of relief to his stimulant-deprived nerves. Exhaling, the tension from his craving dissipated as fast as the cloud of smoke. He was shocked when Diegert shoved him into the wall.
Diegert slapped the cigarette out of Lopez’s hand. He pushed the Mexican around the corner and into the alley back by the bar’s dumpsters.
“Hey, what the fuck?” shouted Lopez.
Diegert said nothing as he pushed the medium-size man again, this time knocking him against the wall between two dumpsters.
“What the fuck you doing, man? I know who you are, you’re the bouncer.”
Diegert’s first punch was lightning fast, striking Lopez on the cheek. The Mexican stumbled backward but remained standing.
“Fucking A,” said Lopez as he put his hand to his face. “You don’t know who you’re fucking with. The Quinoloans are going to hunt you down and—”
Diegert’s next combination struck Lopez three times in the face, leaving him with a bleeding nose. Using the dumpster for balance, the man still stood but was dazed. The smeared blood from his nose on the back of his hand made it clear he was not going to talk his way out of this. Straightening himself, he tried not to wobble as he put up his fists. Diegert saw the vulnerability and exploited the guy’s weakness by throwing a fake. The instant Lopez reacted, Diegert struck with a combination that included a second punch to the bleeding nose. The Mexican crashed into the back wall, falling to the ground in an awkward pile. Diegert stepped to him and kicked him twice in the ribs. Lopez coughed up blood and desperately extended his hands to fend off the next kick.
Seeing the man defenseless and covered in blood, Diegert stepped back and watched him struggle. He felt powerful in a primal, dominant way. He had beaten his enemy so swiftly and completely, he felt like the king of the pride. He also felt foolish. He had assaulted this man for money, with no indication that Lopez deserved this. Even Lieutenant Prescott had deserved what he’d gotten. Diegert had to admit to himself that he had violated the ethics of martial arts and had used his skills to instigate violence. He could feel the point turning. Fuck it, he thought, I need the money, and this fucker is a drug dealer playing a dangerous game. He snapped a picture of the defeated Lopez, who gurgled through his bloody lips, “You’re gonna get yours.” Diegert walked away, listening to the defeated man, who raised his voice and said, “I’m gonna kill you, motherfucker. I know who you are.”
After washing the blood off his hands, Diegert showed the picture to Buscetti and collected his envelope of cash. He resumed his post at the door and soon found himself opening it as Igor Dimitrov and his crew departed. As he passed, Dimitrov stopped to shake Diegert’s hand. Clapping his big pa
w on Diegert’s shoulder, he said, “хороший удар.” Good punch. It was an unusually friendly gesture, which Diegert didn’t understand and to which he did not reply. Strangely, he felt both a sense of camaraderie and revulsion. After the group left, a feeling of foreboding crept over him.
The next morning was a bright, dry Texas beauty with the fragrance of bluebells and oleanders mixing with the diesel exhaust that hung in the air around the Single Star Motel. The flowers made him think of home, and Diegert recalled how his mom had always put so much effort into keeping the house neat, tidy, and attractive. She did all the gardening, and although he had mowed the grass, she made the place look real nice with flowers and her well-tended berry bushes. She kept the chicken coop secure, repairing the damage from attempted incursions by foxes and coyotes. She painted the house, washed the windows, and pulled the weeds. His mom took pride and pleasure in keeping their small, simple home, which was fronted by a dirt road, looking like a place that was loved and appreciated.
At this time of day, she would be home since she worked the evening shift at the diner. He smiled as he waited for her to answer his call.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hey, Mom.”
“David, I didn’t expect a call from you.”
“Yeah, well, they finally gave us phones over here. How ya doin’?”
“Fine, I’m fine. How about you?”
“I’m doing OK, although the Army isn’t everything the recruiters tell you. I’m supposed to be home in eight months.”
“Eight months? That long?”
“Yeah, I might get some leave for a week or two, but I don’t know when that’s going to happen.” Diegert turned out of the wind so he could hear better. “I tell ya, Mom, Afghanistan is really hot this time of year.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. I miss you, David.”
“Yeah, I miss you too, Mom.”
“Without you, I have to do everything around here.”
“How are Jake and Dad?”
“They’re fine. Usually drunk. Jake’s still dealing drugs. I don’t let them bother me.”
“But you’re OK, right?”
Through the phone, Diegert got only a muffled response. He listened carefully, and he could hear the soft gasp of a cry escaping from his mother.
“Mom, what’s wrong? Tell me what’s going on.”
Her sobs were being stifled, and he could hear that she was struggling to speak.
“Come on, Mom, talk to me; tell me what’s happening.”
“I’m scared.”
“Is Dad hitting you?”
“No, no, no, it’s not that.”
“Then what? What are you afraid of?”
“I’m afraid we’re going to lose the house.”
Diegert thought about the house and property and figured it wasn’t even worth a hundred grand. They’d been living in it for more than twenty years, so surely it should be close to being paid off.
“What do you mean, lose the house?”
“The bank is threatening foreclosure.”
Diegert’s thoughts flashed through his head. Although she was smart with money, his father had bought the house before he’d met his mom, and Diegert had no idea how the mortgage was being financed.
“Tell me what the bank said.”
“A man came to the door and gave me some papers. They said Dad hasn’t been paying the mortgage, and he took out an equity loan some time ago. We owe a hundred and sixty-seven thousand. David, I don’t know what to do,” sobbed his mother.
Diegert dropped the phone from his ear as the number passed through his mind. The small house and his father’s beat-up old barn were worth nowhere near that much. Blinking his eyes, Diegert slowly shook his head as the problem became clear.
“How much money do you have?”
Snuffling back her tears, Denise Diegert said, “Fifteen hundred in my checking account, that’s it. I’ve no idea what Dad has. He’s never told me about how he handles his money, but it obviously hasn’t been good.
“Mom, how much time did the bank give you?”
“Two months, but the entire amount is due by then. Apparently, they’ve been sending Dad notifications for a while, and they’re now at the point where it’s pay it all or lose the house.”
As the predicament settled into Diegert’s thoughts, his mother continued.
“David, I don’t want to lose the house. This is the only home I’ve ever had and, you know, I do all the work, keep it nice, and I feel safe here. If I have to leave, then the fear starts all over again. Please help me.”
Imagining her there in the small, tidy kitchen, tears flowing over her high cheekbones with a feeling of desperation and abandonment welling up inside her, Diegert wanted to reassure her.
“Mom, I will help you get that money, and I will keep you from losing the house.”
“How, David? How are you going to do that?”
“I’ll find a way. You just hang in there, and I’ll find a way. My time is up. I’ve to get off the phone. Bye, Mom.”
“Good-bye, David. I love you.”
When the call disconnected, Diegert gazed across the parking lot of the Single Star Motel and realized he had no idea how he was going to get that much money.
9
The Austin Police Department encircled the alley behind the Dark Horse in yellow tape as soon as the bullet-riddled body of a Mexican man had been reported between the dumpsters. They confiscated Buscetti’s video surveillance recordings and began the long process of interviewing all the patrons and employees who had been working the previous night.
Buscetti texted Diegert: Tune into the news. Diegert brought up a local news app and saw the video of himself pushing Lopez through the alley to the dumpsters. The view of what happened between the big trash bins was blocked, but after a few minutes, the video showed Diegert walking out of the alley, alone. The grainy image made it hard to identify the man on the screen, but Diegert certainly recognized himself.
Diegert replied: I need a place to hole up.
Buscetti texted back: 1370 Valencia Drive. Go there and stay put.
The address wasn’t too far away. Diegert pulled his hood over his head and walked to Valencia Drive, which was located in an upscale suburb. The house had a winding drive leading to a nice house set back thirty yards from the road. When he knocked on the door, it opened right away, surprising Diegert, who looked up into the heavily bearded face of an impressively large man who introduced himself as “Peotor Vladak.” Diegert was nearly yanked through the door by the powerful man, who didn’t release his hand until the front door had closed.
“I know your name, and I know your crime,” said the man who stood six foot five inches tall and weighed over two hundred fifty pounds. “But you are safe here. This is a safe house.”
Peotor nodded his head and gestured for Diegert to follow him into the next room.
Diegert remained rooted in the foyer. “I didn’t kill that guy.”
Peotor’s smile crept out from under his beard. “I saw the video, and you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t earn your entrance with a murder. Come. Follow me into the kitchen.”
Peotor trained his gaze on Diegert’s face as he held his arms out and proceeded into the kitchen.
“Sit here, friend.”
Diegert sat on a stool at the raised counter as Peotor called out, “Sam, come down here, we have a guest.”
Rapid footfalls on the stairs preceded the entrance of a thin, wiry young man with close-cropped blond hair and wide-set hazel eyes. From the bottom of the stairs to the kitchen the guy checked his phone screen twice. He finger stroked the screen until satisfied with the effects before looking squarely at Diegert. Peotor spoke, “This is the guy from the video who killed the Mexican.”
The wiry man’s eyelids narrowed as a slight sneer distorted his otherwise inexpressive lips.
“I didn’t kill him,” offered Diegert. “I only beat him up. When I left him, he was alive a
nd shouting.” Diegert felt like he was pleading to the police. The thin man raised his sleeve, revealing a tattooed bicep depicting a combat dagger from which four distinct drops of blood fell off the blade toward his elbow. Leaning forward, the man said with clarity, “Don’t let anyone take credit for what you’ve done.”
Diegert swallowed hard as the proud murderer stepped back, dropped his sleeve, extended his hand, and introduced himself. “I’m Sam Klemczar. How long will you be with us?”
Diegert felt the cold of Sam’s hand pass into him like a winter’s draft.
“I don’t know.” The question forced Diegert to face his situation and realize he had no idea what to do. His answer passed by the ears of Sam without being heard, since the thin man’s phone had buzzed, and the screen once again had his full attention.
As the young man’s climb up the stairs drummed through the house, Peotor told Diegert, “You can use the refrigerator but don’t take anything from the bottom shelf or the one above that. You can use anything in the door.”
So it went for two days, with Sam almost never coming downstairs and Peotor constantly talking about Russia and all the exploits of the Russian mob all over the world. At one point, Sam had returned to confiscate Diegert’s phone for “safety reasons.” Without communication, Diegert began to get paranoid. He wanted to talk to Buscetti and check in on his mom, but Sam’s insistence that his phone could be tracked, and the safe house blown forced him to be incommunicado. Not being able to do what you want for even the most basic things can make anyone edgy. Diegert, however, had the Austin Police Department, the Quinoloan cartel, and probably the FBI all looking for him. Not knowing if he was really safe or just being set up to be turned over was very aggravating.
Peotor’s laptop became the only conduit to the outside world, and Peotor’s worldview was dominated by the exploits of assassins as depicted on the darknet. The underground Internet required the installation of Tor software which rerouted digital signals so they couldn’t be traced. It presented a means of worldwide communication that couldn’t be tracked or controlled by law enforcement. Peotor told Diegert the original software was designed by the US Navy. It had been adopted by criminals and served the needs of drug dealers, human traffickers, fences for stolen merchandise, and contract killers. The killers fascinated Peotor. Assassins seeking employment posted their exploits, including graphic pictures of the people they’d murdered. The more audacious assassins posted GoPro videos that not only showed the kill but the process of breaching security to execute the target.