The Flower Man

by Vincent Zandri

  Foot pressure on the gas pedal.

  The engine RPMs begin to rev. Nothing overly noticeable at first, but subtle. The Mustang six cylinder is in primo shape, and it’s got a lot of power. So, after three or four seconds of giving it the gas, the noise from the racing RPMs goes from subtle to obvious. So does the speed I’m taking on. Not to mention my weaving from one side of the road to the other.

  “What are you doing, Jobz?” Wool Overcoat spits.

  He pokes me again with the gun barrel. But this time, I pretend not to notice it. Like that pain is nothing compared to what’s going on inside my rib cage. And just to demonstrate how much pain I’m in, I’ve got one hand gripping the wheel, the other hand pressed against my sternum. I crouch my back, make like I’m hunching over the steering wheel. Make like I’m suddenly in great, if not grave, pain.

  “The pressure,” I spit, my words coming out forced and tense. “It’s causing . . . a heart . . . a heart attack.”

  “You serious, da?!” Wool Overcoat barks.

  Now I really let him have it. I pound my foot on the gas and shift my right elbow so that it’s pressing against the horn. The RPMs rev. The horn blares. The car swerves violently.

  “Serious as a coronary!” I bark. But in my brain, I know precisely the damage I’m about to do to my pride and joy. I whisper to myself, “This is gonna hurt me a lot more than you.”

  The Mustang is doing eighty miles per hour when the car cuts sharply to the right, runs over the soft shoulder, busts through a chain link fence that runs the perimeter of the Albany Rural Cemetery. I crash through a patch of woods until the car emerges out the other side onto a flat brown lawn speckled with old gray headstones. I hit the brakes and the tires skid along the frozen earth.

  I’m still hunched over, still pounding the horn. But when I seize my first opportunity to glance in the rearview, I can see how pale Wool Overcoat’s face is. He must have fallen over onto his side when we crashed through the woods because he’s only now regaining his balance and sitting back up, that pistol still gripped in his hand.

  But what he doesn’t realize is that Jobzy also has a gun.

  “Get out!” he screams. “Get out of car now!”

  “Can’t,” I mumble as if at any moment I’m about to breathe my last. “Just . . . can’t.”

  I see it then, out the corner of my eye. She’s walking amongst the tombstones like the sudden appearance of a 1966 Mustang convertible inside the cemetery is a perfectly normal, everyday occurrence. A doe. A fawn, actually. Looking all innocent and Bambi like. Makes me wanna cry, she’s so beautiful.

  “Look, Mister,” I whisper. “Over there.”

  My eyes once more gazing into the rearview mirror, I see him turn his head in the direction of the deer. He’s got his gun pointed at the back of my head, but his eyes have clearly locked on the deer, as though for a second or two he’s mesmerized by the site of the peaceful animal. That’s when I slide my 9mm out, whip it around, swiping his gun out of his hand. I press the barrel against his temple.

  “Don’t fucking move, Russian.”

  His gun has dropped onto the seat beside him. I know what he’s thinking. Just one swift move and he can grab the gun back up.

  “Don’t do it,” I say. “Don’t even think about it.”

  He smiles, reaches.

  I shoot.

  Fuck me, if it isn’t gonna take me forever to get all that blood, bone, and brain matter off my rear windshield and leather interior. But if I choose to look on the bright side, I can revel in the fact that the bullet didn’t exit through the glass but instead, must have taken a trajectory south into his torso. Call it ballistic good luck.

  The motherfucker is still bleeding, however, even if half his head is now raw hamburger.

  I jump out of the car. Only then does the doe turn and sprint away from the scene. Opening the back door, I yank his messy body out, lay it out on the frozen ground. I have to admit, a big part of me wants to kick him in the gut for good measure. Instead, I do the right thing and start digging through his pockets.

  I dig through the interior of the jacket he’s wearing under the wool overcoat. I find a leather wallet in one of the pockets. Opening it, I find a driver’s license and a green card. The name Sergey Gubanova is printed on both. I pull out some credit cards and pictures. One of Sergey standing beside a tall brunette woman. A little girl is standing in between them. He’s wearing a suit while both females wear long dresses. In the background is Red Square in Moscow. A family pilgrimage to the site of Lenin’s tomb. No one is smiling.

  Digging my sticky little fingers into the cash pouch, I find what for me might be considered a jackpot. Well over a thousand dollars in large bills. Add to that a few smaller bills, and it’s a grand and change. I look one way, then the other, stuff the cash into my jacket pocket. Is it the right thing to do? Technically, no. But then, I’m going to have to pay someone to detail the interior of my car and considering it’s covered in human brains and blood, it’s not going to be cheap. Plus, the scratches and dents on the front grill and hood are gonna cost me big time. The cash, she is mine, all mine. Sure, I’m no Boy Scout. Or haven’t you figured that out by now?

  One last task before I get back in my car, head to the McGoverns. I peer down at Sergey Gubanova’s black-glove-covered hands. Taking a knee, I pull off the glove that covers his right hand. Cuts and abrasions scar the skin on the back of the hand. I turn the hand over, see that the palm is a mess, and that there’s a deep laceration in the middle finger near the joint.

  “Son of bitch,” I whisper to myself, my cloudy breath leaving my mouth like steam heat. “You killed Megan. You and somebody else.”

  I pull off the second glove. Same story.

  Standing, I snap cell phone pictures of the hands. Then, taking a step back, I take pictures of the body. I send them on to Miller.

  Sergey Gubanova, I text below the last picture. He killed Megan. I killed him. Self-defense. Heading to McGoverns now.

  Then I type in the location of Sergey’s body. Miller’s uniforms will want to get at the Russian’s body before the critters do. Getting back behind the wheel, I try not to look at the gore that covers the back seat. Firing the engine up, I turn the car around, head back through the patch of brush, out through the opening in the fence and onto the road.

  By the time I hook a left into Terry’s neighborhood road, I feel like I’m going to puke.

  I park the Mustang in the driveway. When I get out, I glance at the top of the drive and the APD blue and white that’s still parked there. The day is cold like it should be. But there’s something about this cold. It’s more than skin or bone deep. It seems to penetrate my soul. I feel my teeth shiver, my limbs tremble. To say something doesn’t feel right is putting it mildly.

  I try to make eye contact with the cop still sitting behind the wheel of the cruiser. I can hardly make him out in the glare of the daylight, even if the daylight is muted by gray cloud cover. I offer him a quick wave. It’s possible he waves back. It’s hard to tell. Making my way around the back of the house, I climb the steps onto the back deck, go to the sliding glass door. Pulling out my 9mm, I slowly slide the door open, step inside. No one in the living room. I head into the kitchen. No one there either. But I hear something. Muted voices. I’m trying to figure out where they’re coming from.

  “The basement,” I whisper.

  I go to the basement door, slowly open it. The voices are less muted now.

  “Stop this madness, Terry,” I hear. It’s Janice. “It’s a sickness. You have a sickness, Terry.”

  “Please, Janice,” he says. “I’m watching something. In case you haven’t noticed.”

  “He’s coming for us, Terry. You know that, right? It’s just a matter of time. And when he comes for us, he will kill us all. Just like he killed Megan.”

  “You killed, Megan,” he says. “Shame on you, Janice. Shame on you twice because now I know it was you who sent this movie to Natalia, so she co
uld use it against me in a court of law. Shame, shame, shame on you, Janice, you . . . you . . . you lawyer killer, you.”

  “They had a gun to my head, Terry,” Janice says. “What I did, I did for me and the boys. We need the money, Terry. The boys and me need as much of it as we can get.”

  “You did a horrible thing, Janice,” Terry goes on, voice calm, collected like he’s reading the teleprompter. “You’ve done a lot of horrible things.”

  Janice makes a sound that’s part squealing, part weeping. It’s one of those sounds that hurts to listen to.

  Gun in hand, I began a slow descent down the carpeted stairs. I feel my body heating up like the temperature in the house has been cranked up to one hundred degrees. It feels like the arboretum. It’s the exact opposite of the damp, frigid air outside. The closer I come to the bottom of the staircase, the more I make out other sounds. Or, other voices I should say. One of the voices is definitely Terry’s, but it sounds like it’s coming through a tube. The other is that of a girl. Not a little girl. More like a teenager.

  I come to the bottom of the stairs and gaze onto the wide-open room. A screen has been set up on the far opposite side of the space. It’s one of those old-fashioned, portable movie screens they used to set up for us back in grammar school when the nuns wanted to show a movie about Jesus or the saints or the birds-and-the-bees. A movie shown over a real projector. Something as outdated as a horse and buggy.

  The Super-8 film being projected onto the screen doesn’t need any interpretation. I can make out the young, teenage Natalia plain enough. She’s in bed with Janice inside what looks to be a cheap hotel room. They are both naked, the white bedsheets covering the lower halves of their bodies. They’re laughing and joking with the cameraman who, in this case, is Terry. I can hear his voice, him directing the women to kiss for him. They turn to one another, gather each other in their arms, and start making out.

  “Welcome back folks,” Terry’s voice announces over the tinny projector speaker. He’s narrating the film in his Mr. TV voice. “What you are witnessing, ladies and gentlemen, is what’s known in porn circles as some beautiful girl-on-girl action.”

  I shift my focus from the movie to the couch positioned between the screen and the tripod-mounted movie projector. The lights in the room have been turned off, but in the cone-shaped beam of projected light I can make out Natalia. She’s been bound and gagged with duct tape and placed at the far-left end of the couch. On the opposite end is Janice. Her ankles and wrists also appear to be bound. But her mouth hasn’t been gagged, as if Terry wants to listen to every word she has to say about the old homespun movie.

  Seated between the two women, is Terry. He’s fully dressed, his arms crossed over his chest, affectionately viewing the movie like he’s watching old films he shot of his kids when they were just toddlers.

  I shift my eyes back to the screen.

  The girls are now feeling one another up, their hands playing with one another’s breasts. Meanwhile, Terry the cameraman and master of ceremonies, continues to encourage them. He’s Mr. TV turned porn director.

  “Such talented, beautiful girls,” he says while filming. “You’re making me so hard. You’re making the world hard.”

  Natalia is either passed out on the couch or refusing to watch the film because she’s staring down at the floor. Janice is watching, but she’s shaking her head, and from what I can see in the white projector light, she’s weeping. Terry just continues to watch and listen to his own words broadcast over the cheap projector speaker, a sort of sick grin planted on his face, his arms crossed over his chest.

  I raise my gun, point it at his head.

  “That’s enough, Terry!” I bark. “Turn it off.”

  Janice turns.

  “Steve,” she says.

  Terry slowly turns.

  “Jobz,” he says. “Where have you been, my friend? Come on in and take a seat. We’re just getting started. Hope you like art films.” He smiles warmly. “Get you something to drink?”

  On the screen, the Super-8 film goes in and out of focus while Porn Director Terry sets the camera on its stand. Seconds later, he appears onscreen. He’s naked, his ass cheeks pale white compared to the rest of his artificially tanned body. He climbs into the bed with the girls, slips between them.

  The live and in-person, real-time Terry notices me staring at the film.

  “Can you believe that, Jobz?” he says. “What you’re looking at is a real, old-fashioned Super-8 camera. It’s just like I had when I was a kid, only this model can record sound as I’m sure you’ve gathered by now. I think digital video is lifeless compared to the richness and depth of the Super-8, don’t you agree? Super-8 film is what got me into the news business in the first place. I used to spend countless hours when I was a kid filming things all over my neighborhood. Men and women mowing their lawns, cats caught up in trees.

  “But then, at night, I’d sneak out and get the really good stuff. I’d film people in their homes, film them making out on the couch. If I was feeling really brave, I’d go around to their bedroom windows and try to film them making love. I’ve got films of dozens of couples making love. Some of them are lesbians. And listen to this, I even caught a few guys in the act with one another. Prominent citizens, married to other women, who were leading secret lives.”

  Janice is staring at me. Into me. The tears are pouring out of her eyes. Natalia is still staring down at the floor. She’s not making a move. I can only wonder if she’s dead. Or maybe she’s been drugged by Janice’s poison plant.

  On the screen, Terry is shoving the young Natalia’s legs over his shoulders while he enters her. Meanwhile, Janice is touching her, kissing her. I feel my stomach twist and turn itself into knots. I grow queasy. The gun still aimed at Terry, I make my way across the carpeted floor and pull the plug on the old projector.

  The room goes black, and the shooting starts.

  Correction.

  A split second before the shooting starts, a single green laser beam of light is projected from its mount below the barrel of a high-powered rifle onto Terry’s chest. There come four or five explosions accompanied by an equal amount of brilliant flashes. Time slows down enough for me to see half of Terry’s digestive tract has blown out of his body and against the white screen.

  Janice screams bloody murder while I hit the floor, aim the pistol in the direction of the shooting. But it’s so dark, it’s impossible to make out the face much less the body of the shooter. I hear footsteps. I shoot at the sound of the footsteps. I hear a grunt. The grunt tells me I’ve hit something. But the body doesn’t fall or collapse. Then something kicks the gun right out of my hand. I jump up onto my knees, swing my arms wildly, desperate to land some punches.

  Jumping up onto my feet, I shout, “Flower Man!”

  He answers with the stock end of his rifle against my forehead.

  “Do you worry about your children?”

  The deep, pain-rattled voice wakes me. Or maybe I was already awake, but only now am I fully conscious. It takes some time, but as soon as my eyes focus, I can see that I’m seated in the living room on the couch near the fireplace. Janice and Natalia are seated on the second couch just across from me. The coffee table that separates us supports two big new bouquets of white orchids and more of those bright little red flowers added in to give them some color.

  “Excuse me?” I respond, my mouth dry and tasting like copper.

  I can’t help but notice then that Janice’s ankles and wrists are still bound with the duct tape. She’s also still crying. But her eyes are staring out the big wall-length window behind me. The same window that was just replaced after The Flower Man’s men aired it out with their bullets. She’s running her fingers over the cuts and abrasions on her hands.

  “Do you worry about your children, Mr. Jobz?” Anatoly repeats.

  He’s pacing the floor while holding an AR15 with both his hands. His gray beard is soaked with tears, his eyes are red and exhausted look
ing. His left arm was grazed by one of the bullets I fired in his direction. It’s bleeding, but not profusely.

  “I don’t have any kids,” I say.

  It makes me sad to say it. But I guess there’s always hope. That is, I live through this day.

  “When I brought Natalia to live here in the United States, I was so happy. We were so happy. Our Soviet Union was no more. There were no jobs, no future, no life.” He breaks out in tears, wipes his raw eyes with the back of the hand on his wounded arm. “I have no choice but to whore my own daughter. She was just thirteen years old. We have no money, no food.” He looks at me wide-eyed and enraged. He makes a fist, approaches me with it, shakes it in my face. “We have to eat, Jobz, do you hear me? It was worse condition than Stalingrad for grandpapa and mama. It was either be whore or be like cannibal.”

  He backs off. Thank the lord.

  “But then,” he goes on, voice softer, more hopeful, less pain-filled, “we had the chance to come to the United States. It was like dream come true, da? The land of plenty. For that to happen, however, we must sell ourselves to devil. The Russian mob would see to it we receive proper passports and paperwork, but in return they own us. That is unless we pay them one hundred thousand dollars in cold, hard, US currency.” He shakes his head, works up a wad inside his cheeks, spits it out onto the floor. “Those govnyukee, they were worse than czars. We make it to great United States of America finally, and what am I forced to do? I am forced to sell my daughter once again.”