The Innocents

by Nathan Senthil

  And it didn’t.

  Ryatt grabbed the mask; no use in wearing it now.

  As he exited the alley, harsh light blinded him momentarily and then bounced off the crossbuck beside him. He looked left, opposite the crossbuck, and found that a pair of headlamps had turned onto the road.

  The vehicle was a hybrid of a truck and a van, similar to a cash truck. Except there was no cash inside but costly weapons.

  Heart pumping with glee and a sudden gush of blood, he scampered back into the alley and donned the mask once again.

  With a glance, he could see that the last compartment of the train had crossed and the metal wheels rolled along into blackness. A deafening silence filled the atmosphere.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Ryatt pressed his back against the damp wall. Once the truck passed him, it slowed for the speed bump ahead at the level crossing. Ryatt crouched and jogged towards it. But Leo, being the rabid dog that he was, took off before it passed him. The driver spotted a masked kid running towards the truck, and his mind worked at lightning speed. He swerved left and slammed Leo. The metal body swiped him square in the face, knocking him out cold. Ryatt yelped when the rear wheel missed Leo’s tiny noggin by inches.

  The bells and lights were switched off at the crossing, and the steel poles slowly ascended.

  Fuck it.

  Ryatt stood straight and broke into a sprint. And the truck accelerated before the gates were even halfway up. The driver must have seen Ryatt, another kid wearing a mask, in the side mirror.

  The arms lifted just enough and the truck wedged itself into that space; its top scraped against the metal and sparks flew. In a matter of seconds, Ryatt reached the truck; at the same time, it also freed itself and gained speed.

  Now or never.

  Ryatt dived and grabbed the safety screen on the passenger side door. One of his feet landed on the running board, while the other missed it, dragging on the road below. Ryatt quickly pulled himself up and latched onto the truck. But he almost let go when he looked inside. The security guard had just removed a pistol from his holster. Luckily, when the guard tried to take aim at Ryatt from his confined space, the side panels didn’t permit it. So he shifted the gun to his left.

  Too late.

  Ryatt already shot three bullets into the window. The first one punctured the glass, got deflected, and lodged itself in the top board. It was in no way wasted because the second and third passed through the crater the first had created, and hence did not ricochet. They pierced the man’s temple and neck, and his chin slouched onto his chest. The meatbag was fastened to the upholstery by the seat belt, giving Ryatt an unhinged view of the pale driver, who on seeing Ryatt screamed, “Oh my god! You killed Ben.”

  Duh.

  “Pull over,” Ryatt shouted. “I will kill you too if you don’t.”

  “You little…” The driver tried to shake Ryatt off by zigzagging on the road, tires screeching. The oncoming traffic staggered, some careened over into the ditch.

  “Goddamn it.” Now they would call the pigs. Ryatt put the gun back in its holster and grabbed the safety screen atop the windshield.

  The driver was swerving left to right and vice versa, as vigorously as he could. Ryatt put a foot over the hood and, heaving himself across, pulled himself over it. Now that he was in the front, the driver scrunched and hid his head between his knees. In that position, it was impossible to operate the steering wheel. The truck climbed the curb and hit an alley, bursting open an innocent dumpster loafing there, yawning.

  Ryatt was catapulted and landed on the garbage the dumpster had puked. Not wasting time inspecting himself, he sprang up to his feet and pointed the gun at the window.

  The driver raised his arms. “Please—”

  “Out,” Ryatt ordered.

  Having exhausted all his options, the driver obeyed. Arms up in the air, he got down and looked around the mess. Apart from the reek strewn about, the dumpster had also squirted old grease in a wide arc.

  What a mess!

  Though Ryatt wasn’t hurt, he felt agitated. Iris, Leo, and Thomas were all Ryatt had. What if the truck wheel ran over Leo’s small head? The head Ryatt slapped and rubbed so many times? It would have been burst open, the brain spilling—

  No. He wouldn’t allow himself to think anymore. An uncontrollable anger burned inside his stomach.

  Ryatt stared at the driver, his vision smudgy. The driver must have sensed the hatred because he put his arms down, turned around, and sprinted.

  Poor asshole never had a chance.

  Ryatt got off the remaining shots. Three bullets were buried in the back of the driver’s head, millimeters apart from each other. The driver half lurched, half stumbled, then face-planted. His arms hung loosely on his sides as he slid across the greasy tarmac.

  Ryatt got in the truck, reversed from the alley, and drove towards the level crossing. The dead man blobbing on Ryatt’s side had no exit wound. If it weren’t for the unbridled way his head bounced, he would easily pass for a sleeping guy.

  “Your friend shouldn’t have hit Leo.” Ryatt leaned across, pulled the door handle, and unlatched the seatbelt. “If he hadn’t, he would be alive now. Not dead on the roadside.” Ryatt could push the man out with his hand but he was raging inside, so he lifted his leg from the accelerator and placed it on the man’s arm. “Like you.”

  He then kicked the dead body, twisting his hip in the process, and the truck jerked. Ryatt put his foot back on the pedal and got the truck back under control. In the side mirror, he saw the limp body rolling twice before coming to a halt, sprawled out in the middle of the road.

  The door hung open. To shut it close, Ryatt swerved the truck violently, not caring about the 18-wheeler on the other side. It honked in panic and they both avoided a collision by microseconds. Ryatt, having blown the steam off, smiled and sighed.

  Then he heard the sirens.

  Oh shit!

  He floored it and within a mile, the railroad crossing came into view. Ryatt had to pinch himself to believe it. Had he been only a minute away? When he was hanging from the truck, it felt like they were driving forever. Must be the adrenaline distorting the sense of time.

  Leo was squatting on the sidewalk, still wearing his red demon mask. The truck stopped beside him and Leo climbed in, saying, “I knew you wouldn’t need me to finish the job.”

  Ryatt shook his head. “Not true. I had to do double the work.”

  “And double the acrobatics.” Leo cackled.

  Ryatt gave out a dry laugh and rubbed Leo’s head, over the mask.

  They drove to a predestined road two and a half miles away from the hotspot. A semi-trailer was parked at the curb, carrying a 40-foot container. Seeing Ryatt, its back was opened up and a ramp was placed on it. A big old monster lolling its tongue out.

  Ryatt drove straight into the mouth and Thomas quickly shuttered the backdoor. As Leo and Ryatt finally removed their masks, the semi moved and, minutes later, climbed the old highway of I-96, locally known as Jeffries Freeway.

  Leo opened the door and slipped on the wet blood on the running boards. He lifted his foot up, saw the red smear under the sole, and cackled.

  “You gonna open it up?” Ryatt asked.

  Leo nodded and switched on a generator at the corner. Then he tugged a jackhammer connected to it and went to work on the weapons truck.

  The battering noise was too much for Ryatt, nauseating him. He used the internal door that connected the trailer to the driver’s cabin.

  Thomas’s fingers clasping the steering wheel were visibly tight.

  “What’s up with you?” Ryatt slapped Thomas’s stiff shoulder and sat on the passenger seat.

  Thomas took one hand off the wheel, and his trembling finger pointed outside the window.

  The side mirror showed an army of police cruisers racing through the traffic. Ryatt shook his head and tsk-tsked. “Have some faith, will you?”

  Ryatt nodded at the first cruiser that ov
ertook their semi and kept on driving. In the next few moments, half a dozen police vehicles whizzed past them, none of which gave the semi a second glance.

  Chapter 10

  December 25, 1981. 12:04 A.M.

  Thomas reversed the semi into a building not unlike their hangout. Rubble was strewn across the floor, and graffiti adorned the walls. No one occupied it, except a few hobos whom Leo chased away, running towards them wearing a red demon mask and shooting at the sky, cackling as they stumbled over each other and screeched in horror to save their meaningless existence.

  Leo had breached open the truck with the jackhammer, and they found caches of weapons inside. Ryatt hadn’t been happier on Christmas mornings. He spent quite some time with the contents, until he remembered they had work to do.

  He sauntered to the Caddy they had stashed in a corner and opened the door.

  Twenty minutes later, Ryatt entered Oak Park and rolled the car to a stop in front of a payphone booth on Parklawn Street. He fished out a ten-cent coin, fed it into the slot, and dialed.

  The call was answered on the second ring.

  “It’s done.”

  Silence.

  “Hello?”

  Roman said, “Drop the trailer at the boathouse like we’ve planned. My guys are waiting there.”

  “Change of plans,” Ryatt said.

  “What change?” Roman asked. Ryatt could practically see those bushy brows suffocating the bridge of his nose.

  “I want to meet Mr. Hat.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I… the other day, I shot your guy’s finger off. Now I understand how stupid it was of me to do that.”

  “All’s forgiven.”

  “Yeah, no, pardon my skepticism but I find it hard to believe. There ain’t no guarantee you’ll let me leave the boathouse vertically.”

  Roman laughed in a condescending tone. “Nothing like that will happen. Come on down.”

  “You can’t expect me to just believe your word and hand over the truck.”

  Roman took a breath and sighed. “What do you want then?”

  “To meet Mr. Hat,” Ryatt said, making it sound like he respected Bugsy a lot and he wanted to be in Detroit Alliance’s good graces.

  “Alright. Fine, take note,” Roman iterated the address to Bugsy’s mansion. Ryatt smirked, not jotting it down; he was already on its street corner.

  Thirty minutes later, Ryatt stopped the Caddy at the front gate and pressed the intercom to announce his presence.

  Roman came outside and got in the backseat. “Nice ride. Yours?”

  “Ours.”

  The mansion was at least 20,000 square feet with a pool and tennis court. Was this the same person who had harassed a poor blind woman for unpaid interests on $5,000?

  Roman directed Ryatt to a garage, where the Alfa Romeo was parked.

  They both got down and walked to the front door.

  “Where are your friends?” Roman asked.

  “With the truck.”

  “And where is the truck?”

  “Here.”

  “Here?”

  “An hour later, it’s here, if you do everything like I… um… request you to do.”

  Roman pointedly looked down at Ryatt’s holster. In a blink of an eye, Ryatt swiped the gun out. Roman’s laid-back brain was late by a second when it decided to react. Eyes bulging, he fumbled to reach his back. All this time, Ryatt could have killed him ten times over if he had wanted to.

  Ryatt shook his head. “No, Mr. Roman.” He grabbed Roman’s doughy wrist and placed the revolver on his palm. “I’m handing you my gun. I understand you can’t let me carry it when I meet Mr. Hat.”

  Roman held his chest and let out a chortle. “You cheeky little fuck.” He jabbed Ryatt on the arm playfully. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”

  Roman pocketed the SW. “Put your arms out on your sides.”

  Ryatt did, and he was given a complete pat down.

  “Satisfied?”

  “Uh-huh.” Roman nodded. Then he took out a key and worked on the door lock like a burglar. His behavior piqued Ryatt’s interest, he seemed too fastidious as he inserted the key into the doorknob and turned it. Like it would jump and rip his face if he moved any faster.

  Fascinated, Ryatt took a closer look. The lock had a slim slit for a keyhole like other locks, but unlike them, it had a hollow above the slit.

  “What’s that hole?” Ryatt asked.

  “If someone tries to tamper with the door without a key…” Roman slowly pushed it open and beckoned Ryatt to step in. On the other side of the doorknob was a sizable revolver, attached to some peculiar homemade contraption. The hollow facing outside was its muzzle.

  “Boom.” Roman laughed. “Every door to the property has one.”

  “Why don’t you fix it two feet higher and kill the intruder altogether?”

  “Nah, it doesn’t work like that. We know because we’ve tried. It depends on the asshole’s height. If he is too tall, the bullet hits his shoulder and he runs away. Too short, and it completely misses him.”

  “So the midsection: it presents a wider target than the head, hence lesser probability of failure.”

  “Correct. Also, we don’t want to kill him. Not that quickly anyway.”

  “You have to ‘interrogate’ the poor fuck,” Ryatt said. “Then publicly make an example out of him, to deter other potential hitmen.”

  Roman smiled, which didn’t reach his eyes. So they had interrogated people here, maybe in the basement. Drilling the eyeball or nail-gunning testicles to a chair? Ryatt had heard stories about Bugsy. None of them portrayed him as merciful.

  Roman led Ryatt inside through a lengthy hallway. A tall Christmas tree was perched in front of the largest TV Ryatt had ever seen. An indoor fountain gurgled water; its drizzle carried pleasant coolness and not so pleasant chlorine. Bronze statues of men with ancient weapons stood guard around the walls.

  “Enough staring.” Roman waved his arm towards a flight of stairs at the far side of the living room.

  Ryatt climbed the steps, and when he reached the landing, Roman said, “Take a left.”

  Ryatt did and came across another series of bronze statues flanking the corridor, this time not of medieval warriors. They were of Kamasutra postures.

  “Nice, uh?” Roman winked.

  No. Bugsy was a sex fiend. The fact angered Ryatt when he thought about this filthy animal abducting his mom.

  Roman opened a mammoth teak door to the right, and in they went.

  Bugsy sat at a mahogany desk, and two chairs were placed across from him. Numerous framed photographs hung on the walls: Bugsy fishing, hiking, running, swimming, kayaking.

  In most of the photos, he wore his ridiculous hat that drooped to the side of his face. A fucking Al-Capone-wannabe.

  On a showcase behind Bugsy, a phonograph played some opera music; it was that soprano shit where women sang high-pitch numbers and broke glasses.

  Roman sat in one of the chairs but neither offered a seat to Ryatt.

  “So, kid, why you wanted to see me?” Bugsy took out a cigar from a green velvet box on the table. “Just leave the truck to us, get paid, and crawl back to your hole, eh?”

  “There’s no guarantee you’ll let us live after we give you the truck.”

  “What the fuck are you babbling about?” Bugsy snipped the cigar’s tip and lit it with a match. His words distorted as he spoke with the cigar in his mouth. “We ain’t gonna whack you. You’d already be fish food if we wanted to.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Hat, but I can’t take that risk. I can’t bring it here.”

  “So we pay now and expect you to give us a call with the location of the truck?”

  “That’s not—”

  “We tread with little to no trust when we do business with negroes.” Bugsy glimpsed at Roman who laughed and slapped his left knee.

  “I know you can’t pay upfront.” Ryatt swallowed and tried to wet his mouth that had sud
denly become dry. It was no time for indignation. “How about you and Mr. Roman come with me?”

  “What if you take us to a quiet street and rob us? I mean, we’ll hunt you down and skin you alive after, but you get the idea.”

  “If we were stupid enough to steal from you, we would have crossed into Canada by now, along with the truck. Why am I here, unarmed, talking to you?”

  “I don’t know, you tell me.”

  Ryatt let out an exasperated breath. “Know what? You take me to any other place except the boathouse, but it should be on neither of our turfs. A no man’s land where you can’t hurt me and I can’t hurt you.”

  “Boy, you can’t hurt me anywhere.”

  “Yes, sir, I know. I completely agree.” Ryatt placed a hand over his heart. “I was just trying to make a point. When we reach the neutral territory, I’ll ask one of my team members to drive the truck there.”

  Bugsy studied Ryatt with eyes that were just a pair of slits.

  Ryatt continued, “Don’t even have to bring the cash with you. Come and check your stuff. If you’re satisfied, call one of your guys and tell him to deliver the money to my other team member, who will be in a totally different location. In fact they will go wherever you tell them to. Your choice.”

  Bugsy looked at Roman. “You smell a trap?”

  “We don’t have enmity with the blacks, so it makes no sense for them to instigate a war they know they can’t win.” Roman shrugged. “Plus we ain’t taking the money with us. And he agrees to bring the truck anywhere we tell him to; he is riding around with us all the while. If this is a trap, it’s pretty shitty.”

  “I wanna do business with you, Mr. Hat.” Ryatt leaned on the smooth shiny wood with his arms. “I swear, this ain’t no trap.”

  “Take your damn mitts off my table.”

  Ryatt did and stepped back, hands up in the air.

  Bugsy regarded Ryatt, the black beads scrutinizing his blue ones. “Fuck it. Let’s go.”

  They exited the same way they got in and walked to the Alfa Romeo. But not thanks to fate, it had a flat.

  “We can use my car,” Ryatt offered.

  Roman sat in the passenger seat while Bugsy commandeered the entire back row.