The Last Savage

by Sam Jones

  Silence held sway for a few moments before the guy in the passenger’s seat spoke up in a thick Cuban accent. “You got the stuff?” he asked, “You” sounding more like “chew” as he said it.

  Billy held up the coke. “You got the money?”

  The guy in the passenger’s side unlocked the glove compartment and pulled out a folded-up envelope bursting at the seams with cash from inside.

  Both parties exchanged the goods.

  Billy handed Santoro the envelope as the guy in the driver’s side produced a leather case the size of a wallet and pulled out a vial stored inside a plastic bag—a purity testing kit. He took a dash of the coke, placed it in one of the vials, snapped it and shook.

  A moment later the vial turned a shade of blue.

  The driver flashed a grin. “Product looks good, man.”

  “Ninety-three percent pure,” Santoro said. “We’re not messin’ around.”

  As the two Cubans smiled at the vile, Santoro pulled out a counterfeit detection pen and made a mark on one the bills.

  He looked at Billy. “They got the green.”

  The two parties exchanged back the goods.

  A half second later, the radio in the car changed over to a new track: “Could You Be Love,” Bob Marley.

  Billy jutted his jaw. “Good tunes.”

  The Cubans said nothing.

  “Okay,” Santoro said as he clapped his hands together, “what’s the next move, guys?”

  “What else can you supply us besides the coke?” the driver inquired.

  It wasn’t the answer Santoro or Billy was looking for.

  Billy went ahead and took the liberty of answering the guy’s question anyway: “Glass, ice, H and a few other party favors that should keep the natives restless.”

  “Any samples?”

  Billy could sense that the driver was trying to keep him occupied with frivolous questions.

  Stalling for time.

  “Not today,” he said to the driver. “Maybe on the next go-around.”

  “Our boss wants to establish a long-term relationship,” the passenger said, “but only with people who can supply more than one product.”

  “That all depends,” Santoro chimed in.

  “On what?” the driver asked.

  “On meeting your boss. Hector.”

  Silence.

  The Cubans took a beat.

  “Can’t do that.”

  Billy could smell where the conversation was going.

  And he didn’t like it.

  “And why is that?” he asked with a slightly perturbed inflection.

  The driver said, “Hector doesn’t like to meet people he doesn’t know.”

  Billy pat Santoro on the shoulder—one, two, three. He said, “Well, ain’t that something? We don’t like working with people we don’t know either.”

  “We don’t know who either of you are,” the driver said. “You could be cops.”

  Easy. Billy thought. They don’t know.

  They don’t know shit…

  “Well,” he said, cool, calm, and collected, “I thought that’s why we came here, gents, to get better acquainted with one another. See, we know Rico Castillo. We know the kind of pull that he’s got.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “The point is that we need a handshake deal with Rico’s right-hand man, Hector, if you’re planning on ordering the quantity you’re looking for. That’s the way we do business. We don’t operate with entities. We want to know we’re working for the real guy and not just some goons claiming they work for him.”

  “And our stuff,” Santoro added, “is the purest in South Florida. That’s the reason you hooked up with us. If we’re going to give our product to someone like Hector Fuentes, then we want to meet him. Dizzy was supposed to relay that message. He was supposed to tell you that our terms of supply entail meeting your boss. Did he not say that?”

  The driver said nothing.

  The guy in the passenger’s side turned around.

  Billy looked right at him and could see his rap sheet practically spilling out of his eyes.

  The eyes of a killer.

  “Where you from?” the killer asked.

  “Outer space,” Billy replied.

  “Is that right?”

  “You got it. Call me Major Tom.”

  “Where exactly in space are you from, Mr. Tom?”

  “Uranus.”

  “There a lot of drug dealers like you on Uranus?”

  “There a lot of dumb people from whatever piece of shit town you crawled out of?”

  Confidence.

  The killer grinned. “You’re real funny, maricón…”

  Billy felt his patience being tested to its limits. He wasn’t a hothead.

  But he sure as shit didn’t like being jerked around.

  Control.

  “Don’t play games with me, asshole,” he said, his gaze cutting through the killer like a razor. “I’m not somebody you play games with.”

  The killer cocked his head. “Que?”

  Billy jutted his jaw. “You heard me, amigo. We came here to test the validity of your green and the validity of our product, and only one of us passed with flying colors. Now, either we set up a meet with your boss, or we walk. I don’t work for pawns, and I’m not playing this runaround bullshit.”

  Santoro leaned into Billy’s ear. “Chill…”

  “Na,” Billy said, “To hell with that. These guys are playing games with us.”

  The temperature in the car was rising.

  Everyone’s breathing was a little huff-and-puff.

  Billy felt an itch in his trigger finger.

  Not yet…

  “You’re stalling for time,” he said to the Cubans.

  “We’re just ‘getting acquainted,’” the driver said.

  Billy wagged a finger. Smirked. “Don’t shine me...”

  The driver and the passenger grinned.

  Tension filled up the car and nearly choked the inhabitants as the simpering from the Cubans caused a four-alarm fire to go off inside Billy’s head, his squirrelly little detective brain firing on all cylinders.

  He knew a blitz was coming.

  Right about now.

  “Shit.”

  In a flash, the two men in the front had produced sawed-off shotguns from under their seats and aimed them point blank at Billy and Santoro, barrels made of blue steel now staring them square in the face—two squeezes and their heads would be blown into a Jackson Pollack inspired mess across the back window with Bob Marley singing in the background.

  The heat just made it all the worse.

  Marley somehow gave it rhythm.

  “You douchebags,” Billy said in a tone that reflected more annoyance than fear as he stared down the barrel of the passenger’s shotgun.

  “Watch your mouth,” the driver said, “it’s about to get blown off.”

  Patience.

  The passenger used his free hand to reach back and snatch Billy’s Colt from his waistband and the Beretta that Santoro had stowed on his hip. He tossed the Colt on the floor as he gripped onto the Beretta with a free hand and took aim at Santoro’s chest.

  “You got any other weapons on you?” the driver asked.

  “Yeah,” said Billy as he flipped the guy the bird, “right here, shitheel.”

  Confidence.

  The passenger threw a hook and caught Billy in the cheek—WHACK!

  It stung, but Billy bounced back quickly.

  “One more word,” the driver said as he leveled the shotgun at Billy’s manhood, “and I blow your fuckin’ balls off.”

  Santoro stared daggers at Billy.

  Billy stayed cool.

  All he had to do was say the bailout word into the wire taped under his shirt—“Wildcat”—and backup would come running.

  But he wasn’t ready.

  Not yet…

  “We’re going to take a drive,” the passenger announced.

&nbs
p; “No,” Billy replied. “We’re not.”

  The driver pumped a round into the shotgun—CLICK-CLACK.

  “Say that again?”

  Santoro flinched.

  Billy didn’t.

  “You’re full of shit,” he said.

  The passenger inched his shotgun closer.

  “You say one more word, buddy…”

  Billy said, “How about two—Shoot me.”

  The passenger squinted. “Que?”

  Billy pressed his head flush against the muzzle of the shotgun, Santoro’s eyes as wide as a pair of full moons as he watched Billy literally put a gun to his head. “Come on, chickenshit,” he taunted. “We both know you’re not going to shoot.”

  Santoro grabbed Billy by the wrist. “Cool down, man.”

  Billy shook him loose. “Back off. This guy isn’t going to kill me. If he was, he would’ve done it already.”

  “You stupid?” the passenger asked.

  “You deaf?” Billy spit back.

  A few seconds filled with humidity and tension ticked by, nothing but Bob Marley filling the airwaves as Santoro contemplated dropping “Wildcat” into his wire.

  The driver shifted his weight and said to Billy, “You’re gonna die, cabron.”

  Calculation.

  “No, I’m not,” Billy said, shotgun still digging into his forehead.

  “How’s that?”

  “Because you would have wasted me already if that were the case. If this were a rip off, you would have shot us in the head, took the product, kicked our corpses out of the car and drove off. Instead, you point a pair of shotguns in our face because you thought the overkill would scare us into submission. Right? You’re not here for a deal. You want us alive.”

  Confidence.

  It took the Cubans a moment to rally.

  “This guy is a piece of work, man,” the driver said to the passenger.

  The passenger began fiddling with something in his lap and said, “You’re right about one thing.”

  Billy asked, “What’s that?”

  “The part where you said we need you alive,” the driver said. “The only problem is that you pluralized it.”

  A deafening pop rang out as the passenger shot Santoro in the neck with the Beretta.

  Blood doused the left side of Billy’s face as well as the back of the driver’s headrest as everyone’s eardrums began to buzz and ring. Shock got the better of Billy for about three seconds after the gun went off, his eyes connecting with Santoro’s as they rolled back white.

  Billy remained frozen in place with blood on his face.

  His partner’s blood.

  After a beat, Billy, stunned but still holding onto the advantage that these dipshits weren’t going to kill him, made his move.

  He gripped onto the barrel of the passenger’s shotgun as he slid back in his seat and out of the line of fire. He then raised his right leg and kicked the driver square in his face with his heel—the back of the driver’s head smacked the window, nothing but a mess of blood and teeth spilling out of his mug as the murderous prick was knocked unconscious and his shotgun fell onto his lap.

  Billy was surprised the passenger didn’t pull the trigger on his shotgun when he first gripped onto it. He figured the bones in his hand would’ve been shattered and the skin burned off from having gipped onto the hot metal of the barrel as the gun went off, but the gun never went off.

  Billy got lucky.

  Plain and simple.

  “Fuck you, maricón!” the passenger yelled as he pointed the Beretta.

  Billy popped the passenger one in his left eye, let go of the shotgun, smacked the hand holding the Beretta and knocked it to floor on the driver’s side. He then shoved off his seat, lunged forward, and began wrestling with the passenger and his shotgun up in the front of the Benz, the two men crammed into the tight space with their limbs entangled and teeth gritting.

  “Puto!” the passenger yelled as he landed a left on Billy’s cheek.

  “Motherfucker!” Billy blurted as he craned his head back and slammed the guy on the nose with his forehead.

  The impact knocked them both silly.

  Billy fell into the back of the Benz and the passenger in the front against the dash as he dropped the shotgun. Both of them struggled to collect their senses for about five seconds as Billy started thinking, Where the hell is the backup?!

  Three seconds later, the van filled with his fellow cronies from the FBI came careering around the corner, the squealing of the tires bringing Billy and the passenger quickly to their senses.

  As Billy made a move toward the front seat, the passenger got the slip on him and quickly bailed out of the car, hitting the pavement with a hard thud before shuffling to his feet and hightailing up the street.

  Shit!

  Billy snatched his Colt off the floor and slipped out of the car just as the backup van came to a hard stop behind him. Federal agents hustled out and ran to Billy’s aid with weapons drawn and badges out.

  “Reese!” one of them called out.

  But it was too late—Billy was already giving chase, way ahead of his colleagues and not too far behind the passenger as he shouted out, “Don’t do it, shithead!”

  The passenger took a left behind a house twenty yards to the right of the Benz, and then another right, moving off the streets into a garbage-littered alleyway behind an apartment complex where residents carelessly threw their refuse near the collection of dumpsters that were conveniently spaced apart about every ten feet.

  Billy could tell from the pacing and turns the passenger took as he moved down the alley that he had this route planned out in advance.

  Someone’s probably waiting for him.

  The passenger shot a strained and fatigued look over his shoulder at Billy, who was now closing in on his heels from thirty feet out.

  The passenger then looked ahead to the street at the end of the alleyway about sixty feet away—sweet freedom now just a short sprint away.

  Billy, his days of pounding the pavement in the streets of Eagle Rock to avoid savage beatings from childhood bully Dino the Meano giving him the edge, was closing in on the passenger, debating if he would take the dealer down quick or shove him into one of the dumpsters that was coming up on their right just to make it hurt a little more.

  He might break something if I do.

  Good.

  Billy was now twenty feet out.

  The passenger panted and heaved.

  Billy was now fifteen feet out.

  The passenger kept pounding the pavement.

  Billy was now ten feet out, fists clenched and ready to close in the gap.

  And then a white, four-door Ford came to screeching halt on the street at the end of the alleyway, its windows rolled down and a submachine gun pointed right in Billy’s direction.

  And there they are.

  Billy ducked right and dove behind the last dumpster in the alley as a burst of gunfire tore up the ground around him. Scrapes and cuts took their toll on his body as he landed hard against the dumpster, the shots pinging off and through the metal of the trash bin and punching holes above Billy’s head as the passenger hopped inside the Ford and slammed the door shut.

  The car then drove off down the street as Billy remained behind cover, the Ford’s tires squealing and burning and churning up a cloud of smoke as it took off down the road well past the designated speed limit.

  Two seconds passed. Billy peeked around the edge of the dumpster.

  Clear.

  He ran to the street and raised his weapon—but the Ford too far out to pursue as it turned into a tiny white square off in the distance.

  Billy stood there, gun at his side. “Son of a bitch…” he pouted as he holstered the weapon.

  A couple seconds later, two of the folks on backup arrived, guns drawn and eyes scanning.

  “Reese,” one of the boys in the blue windbreakers called out as they cleared the street, “We heard the shots. You okay?”


  Billy said nothing.

  “Reese,” the fed said again. “You good?”

  It took Billy a second to part his lips and reply, “Not really.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “He got picked up. White Ford. Newer model.”

  The fed pulled his radio and called it in.

  The other grabbed Billy by the arm. “Santoro’s not dead. He’s still breathing…”

  Billy, using the same pace he had acquired under his mentor, Dino the Meano, hightailed it back to the Benz before the fed even finished his sentence as he wiped the blood off his face with his shirttail.

  It was a shitty way to end the day.

  3

  FIVE HOURS LATER.

  Five o’clock in the damn a.m.

  Billy was behind the wheel of a designated getaway car: a shoddy Chevy Nova his fellow feds had stashed away for him in a dark and secluded underground parking structure about a mile from where the deal with Santoro fell to shit, scraped-up knuckles and a few new bruises peppered along his body and a dull headache bringing him down like a yappy Chihuahua.

  Flashing neon lights that traced several buildings outside the parking structure projected a cacophony of vibrant pastel hues that danced across the lenses of Billy’s Ray Ban Wayfarers through the windshield like a kaleidoscope as he hid from the world and stalled for time to think, the Rolling Stones’ “Under My Thumb” playing softly over the radio as he rested his chin on his fist and stared at nothing in particular.

  As of right now, Santoro was in critical but stable condition, there was no trace of the getaway vehicle that picked up the passenger, and the special agent in charge of the operation, Rebecca Ferris—Billy’s handler—was on her way to meet him.

  And she was pissed.

  The past couple of hours had been miserable ones for Billy. After being escorted from the scene in cuffs for the sake of appearances—right after watching an unconscious Santoro being loaded into an ambulance—he took the getaway car and drove two hours to the FBI’s undercover safe house in the sleepy seaside town of Layton on Long Key island about two hours from Miami, nothing but scattered thoughts, a sore body, and nervous pacing keeping him occupied in the hollowed-out beachfront home as he waited for someone to give him his next move.