The Hitman: Dirty Rotters

by Sean McKenzie

  I left the city.

  I had gone car shopping with the money Little B had left me in her will and stumbled upon a 1970 Chevrolet El Camino SS 454 LS6. It needed some restoration, mostly interior work, but it was all about nostalgia and I had the money. The motor was in excellent condition, a 450 horse powered beast; a muscle car collector’s dream. I had found black vinyl bucket seats and put them in, replaced the existing carpet with new black fibers, replaced the pedals and the four speed shifter, and painted the exterior triple black. The chrome bumpers and stainless trim were polished to a blinding shine, then I called it good. Gorgeous actually. Fast like a bullet. Heads turned at every stoplight.

  My mother would have loved it.

  Little B had left me her house too, but I couldn’t stay there. Too many painful memories. I had to leave. I had to go someplace far away and start over to keep from tying bricks around my ankles and taking a dip in Lake Michigan. It was either Florida or California. I flipped a coin. The house was on the market and within a day I sold it for forty grand to a Russian couple who paid in cash. No questions asked.

  Dasvidaniya.

  I drove to Florida and never looked back. I found a place to live, and a decent job as a carpenter’s apprentice. I started life over, the way Little B hoped I would. It took some time to adapt, to put the pain and the past behind me and truly move on, but I did. And it was warm and sunny. Things were going well.

  Then I got the call.

  An old friend from the precinct left me a message on a Tuesday in the middle of May. The message was short. It was precise and to the point. It wasn’t a conversation by any means.

  “We found her. We have a confession. Arraignment at zero nine hundred hours Wednesday.”

  The next thing I remembered was speeding north on I-75 with the intent of being the first car. The gas pedal was threatening to cut a hole through the floor mat. I replayed the message over and over again. It wasn’t going to be good. It was going to hurt like hell all over again.

  Sally Rhode had called. I had met her during the first week of Pamela’s disappearance. She had been a cop who was involved in the case. She helped me post missing persons fliers in the surrounding neighborhoods. I didn’t know if she was just doing a job, or if she liked me, or if she just felt sorry for me. But she had went above and beyond reason to help me cope. Some nights I rode shotgun in her personal car, off duty, and we just drove around looking for Pamela. I called her twice a day for any updates. I begged her to call me if something broke though.

  Sally was tall and thick. She had a deep voice for a woman. She had straight blond hair that was always in a braid ending just below her shoulder blades. I thought she was German or Hungarian, due to her size and those thick eyebrows and blocky teeth. But I didn’t ask. The one thing I did know for sure was that she was a brute. I didn’t want to get her mad.

  Sally Rhode had once punched a horse between the eyes and sent it to the ground.

  I liked her being on my side.

  Definitely not marriage material though.

  I hoped that I would never have to tell her that.

  It took me twenty-two hours to get back to Michigan. I had only stopped for gas, but that was often. The El Camino SS LS6 drank fuel unmercifully. I however didn’t have an appetite. I was wired and anxious. Ready to find out what had happened. Ready to hear some of my burning questions answered. I was nervous. I began to chew my fingernails. A couple of them went too deep. Rookie mistake. I guess deep down I hadn’t really believed this day would ever come.

  I didn’t think Pamela could still be alive. I knew the statistics. I knew the reality. I knew the neighborhood. And I knew that Sally’s voice wasn’t filled with relief. Someone goes missing and turns up after a few years, you talk about them with an excitement in your voice. Sally was to the point. Direct. Not excited. They had found a dead body.

  I accepted it.

  But I needed to know who did it, why, and how. Then I needed to kill the man responsible.

  I entered back into the city just past eight-thirty Wednesday morning. I thought back to a show I watched with Little B. There was a man in his forties who claimed that he had died momentarily and when he came back into his body it had a dirty feel to it. It was like putting on a shirt you found in a dumpster, he had said. Going back into the city gave me that same feeling.

  I made it to the courthouse a few minutes before nine o’clock. I parked next to a slew of TV station vans. I got out, locked up the El Camino, and mall-walked to the front entrance. My legs were cramped and it felt good to stretch them. The morning air felt good as well, though the temperature wasn’t nearly as nice as southern Florida. This day I was fine in my jeans, T-shirt, and leather jacket.

  I made it inside and was greeted by Sally Rhode right away. She was like a giant, parting the sea of regular folks and lawyers and news reporters with her dull stare alone. She came for me and ushered me inside the courtroom to a seat in the back. A giant clock with roman numerals hung high above the judge’s bench. The air conditioner was making it a bit cooler than comfortable. The place was full. Well groomed men in sport jackets holding long-lensed cameras and small recording devices filled most of the room in the back where I was. Normal looking folks were packed in front of us. Several uniformed police were gathered in the back rows too.

  The judge entered from a side door and sat. He was a short black man, bald with no facial hair, in his late fifties, shuffling paperwork with a look like he would rather be anywhere else. A door opened from the side wall and a tall bailiff entered, leading a line of inmates, all handcuffed in the front, all wearing blazing orange jump suits with serial numbers on their chests. Some were old with worried faces, some were young with rebellious eyes.

  Pamela’s killer was in that mix of life’s failures. I started to look at each one closely, trying to decide which one I thought it would be. I ruled out all the women and the scrawny men right away. That left about half of them. A few of them were tall and muscular, really scruffy looking. One was very sharp, clean cut, like a banker with devious eyes and a wolfish grin. But Sally began to talk to me and I didn’t get the chance to judge them all based on appearance.

  “You look tired,” Sally said. “You drove non-stop.”

  I simply nodded to her. I was too anxious to feel weary.

  I sat beside an elderly couple, who both looked like they were in Sunday morning outfits. They were holding hands tightly, sitting close to one another. Their faces were mad. They moved nervously. Parents to one of the inmates in orange, I figured.

  “You made it in time.” Sally bent close and spoke quietly. Her breath was warm, thick with coffee.

  “I just can’t believe this is actually happening. It’s been three years.”

  Twelve inmates were lined along the wall to my right. There was a guard in the front of the line, another at the end. Cameras were mounted to the ceilings in the corners.

  The judge made a motion, said a name, and the first inmate left the line and walked slowly over to the defendant’s podium and stood beside an appointed lawyer. The lawyer held a look like he was getting paid regardless. Grey suit, hair gelled straight back. Clean cut, no conscious.

  “He’s next,” Sally’s head motioned towards the front. “After this loser.” Her angry voice carried. I think she wanted it to.

  “Dirtbag, low-life.” A man said behind us with a deep, commanding voice.

  But I couldn’t see the head of the line. Too many people shuffling around and there was a huge biker-looking man in fourth place blocking the two in front of him.

  I nodded to Sally. “Thanks for calling.”

  She patted me gently on the left shoulder. “I’ll talk to you afterwards.”

  Sally walked away, to the back of the room. I turned my head slightly to make out the men filling the bench behind me. All uniformed cops. They were still making remarks about the man standing, the one being charged for mugging several senior citizens. I turned to see him. I pai
d close attention. The room was dead quiet. All I could see was the back of him. He was older than me, by about twenty years, I thought. Dark hair peppered with grey with a dark beard. He said nothing. His head nodded once when the judge asked him if he understood the charges.

  “He’s a coward,” one of the cops behind me said. He had a deep voice. A very big man. “The world ain’t got no place for a scumbag like this.”

  “He needs to pick on someone his own size. He won’t be so lucky then.” the other replied. His voice reminded me of a plastic fork compared to the other’s deep commanding boom.

  The judge banged his gavel. The tall bailiff walked over to the man and escorted him away from the stand. The two old folks beside me made a celebratory noise and embraced one another. They were crying softly. Their bodies were shaking. They were praising God for justice. I felt myself getting caught up with emotions as well. It was a day for justice.

  The bailiff brought the man towards the side of the room where other inmates were waiting. The man looked down. His wrists were locked together with stainless cuffs. He didn’t look concerned.

  “Burn in hell!” the old man next to me blurted, as if he simply couldn’t hold it any longer.

  The cops behind me began talking to the old folks beside me. I was listening because I had no choice. I could barely hear the judge ask for the next inmate, but I missed his name on the account of the cops trying to comfort the old woman.

  By now there was another man in an orange jump suit standing before the judge. People directly in front of me were exiting, while others were entering. Press were taking pictures of him. All of it was a distraction. I had missed his name and now his identity. The cops behind me kept talking, though hushed somewhat, I heard every word.

  “This creep too,” the deep voice said. “Woman killer.”

  I stared blankly ahead and saw the judge’s lips moving. I didn’t have a clue what the judge had asked, but the guy standing there alone and whimpering nodded quickly. It was all done so fast. I could feel myself getting angry. I wanted to tell the cops behind me to shut up. I wanted to jump up and attack the man who I believe just pleaded guilty to the death of Pamela and a few other girls. I thought I was going to have a heart attack right there.

  Gavel banged.

  “Next,” the judge said.

  The tall bailiff escorted the man away from the stand by the arm over to the wall with the other inmates as before. I had to wait for the bailiff to move because he stayed right in my line of sight. I was so anxious. My adrenaline was pumping. My hands balled into fists. I could feel my face getting hot. I began sweating.

  “I give him a week,” the deep voice said behind me.

  The man was going to die in jail, is what they were saying. He wouldn’t make it to trial. Inmates would beat him to death. I was happy then. I wanted him to die. I wanted him to suffer. It was a terribly dark feeling. I didn’t care if it was wrong. Justice would be served.

  I sat straight up, white knuckled, with a hard look of vengeance as the bailiff walked over to another inmate and escorted him to the stand leaving my eyes to focus sharply on the man who admitted to killing the woman I loved.

  I saw his face. I saw into his eyes as they looked nervously around the room and swept past mine.

  My breath caught in my throat.

  My jaw sagged open.

  I was in stunned disbelief.

  It was Angelo Garboni.

  Chapter 7