by R. J. GREEN
She went and dialed the police for the tenth time, only now she planned to be more specific.
“Black kids are in the house!” she yelled over the phone then slammed it to the base.
Wait a minute, Mrs. Newton stretched her already long neck to get a good glimpse of the two fellows wearing black trench coats standing at the side of the Mullson’s house, excitement rushed through her body, her first thought — police officers. Without warning her legs caved in and her lifeless body tumbled to the floor, after she spotted the two men gliding more than ten feet above the ground toward Anna's window.
Inside Anna's room the two Assassins searched every drawer and closet, under the bed, in the bathroom, behind the doors — whatever they sought they needed badly, for they kept clinching their fists and grinding their teeth. In the backdrop, the volume of the television lowered. Inside the living room Johnny P tossed the television remote aside, and could have sworn something ruffled within the house. “What's that?” he said, pulling out a .45 tucked away in his waist. He headed toward the dining room, slowly.
“What's what?” Murf asked.
“Told you to get real mother sucking gun padre,” Pain Killer teased Johnny P.
“That's a real gun… Isn't it?” Murf questioned himself.
Pain Killer pulled out two M10s from under the sofa cushion where he sat and came swiftly toward the dining room. Johnny P accidentally brushed against Satan’s knife sitting at the edge of the dining table. Pain Killer’s finger twitched at the trigger, almost squeezing as he glimpsed the knife bounce against the floor.
Murf stood staring toward the dining room; behind him the two Assassins sneaked down the stairs and entered the living room. “Anything living kills it,” said Pain Killer, staring at the strange knife. “If it's already dead, just kill it dead!”
“That’s what am talking about my-” said Murf, his conversation ended when Assassin #1 threw a knife into the back of Murf’s head, with the blade exiting the forehead, followed by a stream of blood spattering all over. Pain Killer glanced in the opposite direction and spotted Murf’s body crashing against the floor.
The two assassins found themselves staring down the nozzle of the two submachine guns Pain Killer wheeled towards them; he pressed against the triggers —
In midair the two assassins rotated, jumped, dodged, tumbled — all at superhuman speed and outwitted every bullet inching away at them.
Johnny P swung around when he heard the thunderous booms and froze in his tracks at the sight of Murf lying in a pool of blood and the stunts the assassins were pulling off.
CLICK- CLICK-CLICK — Pain Killer continued to press the trigger, within seconds he’d emptied both clips. He tossed the M10s aside and pointed Johnny P to escape through the back door. “It not about BLACK, WHITE, HISPANIC…” he said, while blocking the entrance to the dining room.
“You're ma boy,” Johnny P pleaded, “I'm not leaving you… yow, Pain Killer… let’s go!” A strange look on Pain Killer’s face had Johnny P wondering what Pain Killer was up to.
“Love you dog,” Pain Killer told Johnny P, as if saying goodbye for the last time. “I'm doing this for Murf.” He recalled forcing Murf to take the long ride from Brooklyn to Long Island; they’d come to retrieve one of Murf’s recent creations which Johnny P accidentally gave to Anna. The plan was for them to open her window, pickup the sunglasses off a nightstand, and go. Now he regretted forcing them to stay for awhile.
Johnny P dived outside when Pain Killer flicked the pins from two grenades he took from under his clothing, just as the assassins were about to get a hold of him.
The whole neighborhood literally shook as two explosions rocked the dining room.
Pain Killer and Assassin #2 body parts scattered.
Assassin #1 used all his remaining strength and shoved away debris from his battered body; he dragged his carcass through the flaming house, all the way to the second floor where he glided from Anna’s room window and landed next-door.
Officer Smith and Officer Brady from the Nassau PD were the only two who spotted the raggedy man gliding through the air, but they didn’t alert their comrades, instead they turned away their heads and went to the back of the house. Outside the Mullson’s house, Johnny P who’d come tumbling from inside tossed his gun aside as soon as he spotted police officers pointing their guns at him. Johnny P never did like the police much, but boy he was glad to see them. With a big grinned he dove to the ground, on his belly he laid with his hands extended outward. Officer Smith and Officer Brady jumped and braced against Johnny P’s back as they slapped on the cuffs. Johnny P knew he was lucky to be alive; more than likely the police initially thought he was Detective Mullson who they had been warned to avoid.
“You got the wrong guy!” Johnny P kept yelling.
Officer Smith and Brady didn’t like a bone in Johnny P black ass, only if they could pump a few rounds in him, they would be more than happy to send his miserable soul to the other side.
It had been thirty minutes since the fire department, located ten minutes away, was called, yet no sounds of their sirens wailed. The fire that had started in the dining room now spread throughout the house, finally reducing the place to rubbles and ashes.
Later that night a helicopter circling above remnants of the Mullson’s residence began to dip lower and lower. Inside the helicopter, Detective Mullson, Jack, Agent Hill, and McKoy’s faces appeared tense, their eyes weary, especially Mullson who was extremely worried about his wife and daughter in Jamaica. He’d no idea they were on the beach having a jolly time as the party cranked to the next level with line dances Anna and Mrs. Mullson had joined. A few planned visits had turned out to be a long day and now night of chases that led to nowhere.
Agent McKoy tapped Jack on the head.
“Is that your house, Jack?” she teased, jokingly, and had no clue whose house it was.
The Helicopter finally touched down in Mullson's neighborhood, but Mullson was not pleased to be home, his eyes widened and his strong square jaw dropped, as he stood before what was once his beautiful home.
“Where is my house?” he bellowed as he stumbled to his knees.
“We did absolutely everything in our power to save your house,” said a chief from the fire department.
“I don’t believe a word coming from their mouths,” Agent McKoy whispered to Agent Hill, referring to the people in charge of the investigation. Agent Hill activated the recording device on what appeared to be a normal pen he placed in his shirt pocket, rolled up his sleeves, then went and stood next to the officer in charge. His intention was to gather all the information as to what happened inside Mullson’s home, the 911 call from the late Mrs. Newton, the three introducers — yet nobody mentioned anything about the fourth body they found inside his home, the knife jammed through Murf’s skull, and a strange knife Officer Smith and Brady confiscated, not listed as part of the evidence.
The whole thing reeked of lies, nothing seemed to add up. Jack knew the truth after reading a few minds, for in his head he heard voices — both alive and dead begging for his mercy, but he must not risk revealing his true identity — so he played on as a clueless human. The war between heaven and earth had reached new heights, and who’s to become the don of hell had begun to take a toll on the dark side, and that must get sorted out between Satan and his son Engulf.
The Nassau County jail hadn’t seen this much action in one night, not as far as Sheriff Little-John could remember, for he’d served two scores as of today. Within the hour he expected to get a visit from an old pal he’d work in the past with. He swung the back door open and entered the staff parking lot. At an area shoved against the wall, rested a few barbecues for the guards, below a sign bolted to the wall that read: Cafe Carucci.
From out of his pocket Sheriff Little-John ripped out a piece his father gave to him for his eighteenth birthday, a very special treasure the family had being handing down for generations, now the time had come for him to hand
it to the next generation. The thought of his grandson flooded his mind.
“Perfect,” he said with a husky voice, yanking his mustache. The Sheriff flipped the golden timepiece open and took a final glance as time ticked away; he snapped it shut before tossing the antique back into his pocket. In his mouth he stuck just the right amount of tobacco between his bottom lips and stained teeth. “I’ll be damn.”
Gaping into the night he girt the buckle of his belt, tucked in his belly, then released simultaneously as a big gulp of saliva glided across the parking lot. Sheriff Little-John drifted back to the door and disappeared into the building.
A few minutes later Mullson, Jack, Agent Hill, and Agent McKoy hurried across the parking lot towards the staff entrance of the Nassau County Jail. After getting off an elevator in a hallway lined with pastel green doors with black trim, they spotted Sheriff Little-John as he stood waiting for them.
“Welcome gentlemen,” his hoarse voice echoed. “And madam. This is my home here at Nassau County... we have a closed door policy, if you get my drift.” He pulled on his mustache and gave off a chuckle.
Agent Hill shook his pal’s hand, been awhile since they’d last met.
“This is my partner Agent McKoy,” Agent Hill pointed out to Sheriff Little-John. “Detective Mullson and Detective Jack from NYPD.”
“Detective Mullson, and Detective Jack,” said Sheriff Little-John, the smirk across his faced wiped away as he glanced at the two from the corner of his eyes. “We don’t want any trouble here.” He led them down the hall to the main cell block, consisting of four rows of grayish-white cells that seemed to go on forever. A second wall of bars separating the guard hallway from cells was barely big enough for one: each with its own toilet and sink, and a bunk bed against the wall opposite the sliding door.
At a door adjacent to the hallway Sheriff Little-John brought his guests to a standstill; he shoved a key in the hole and turned it clockwise. Detective Mullson and Agent McKoy entered a small room where a stench of musk hit their noses, at the center a table and three chairs stood in their perspective places, water condensed against the wall trickled to the concrete floor and settled at a spot where mold and mildew gathered.
At the table Johnny P sat with his head braced against his palms and hadn’t said a word yet, sweat dribbled from his forehead, he drummed his knuckles on the table. He never cared much for Detective Mullson and Agent McKoy who stood in the room across from him and kept pressing him for stuff he’d nothing to do with.
Detective Mullson rushed over and clasped his hand around Johnny P’s neck.
“Why… why?” he screamed at Johnny P.
Johnny P kicked and punched, but his eyes had begun to roll to the back of his head as he was succumb by Mullson’s tightening grip.
Agent McKoy hurried over and forced Mullson to release the choke hold.
Johnny took a deep breath.
Mullson used his fist and delivered a crushing blow against the top of the table. “Why?” he said.
“I think we need to get Jack,” Agent McKoy encouraged Mullson.
“I will take care of this myself,” said Detective Mullson, to McKoy.
Johnny P was not down with all this poo poo nonsense, but what choice did he have getting blamed for a possible double homicide for his homies he loved dearly, arson, and burglary. With no alibi or evidence to clear his name he thought fast.
“Why don't you ask those cops about the others?” he finally blurted.
“Others?” said McKoy, confusion beaming across her face.
Through a glass partition, Detective Jack and Agent Hill stood staring into the interrogation room. The recording device was rolling.
“I don't know if I can trust him,” Mullson told McKoy.
“What if he’s telling the truth?” she whispered to Mullson, after pulling him aside to one corner of the room.
“I'm not lying man,” Johnny P pleaded, “You can ask Anna. I gave her K Murder’s sunglasses by accident. What about my boys. I lost everything…” All this he said quickly then banged his head against the table. “Everything!”
Mullson’s interest peaked, it cannot be, how this scum bag knew his daughter. Did he go into her room and violate her belongings, read her mail, play the answering machine, all these thoughts raced through his mind.
“Murf — K Murder,” he said.
“I took them from K Murder,” said Johnny P, “But it belongs to Murf.”
Jack and Agent Hill entered the interrogation room.
“Where is the knife?” Jack asked Johnny P.
After revelations as to what had happened at the Mullson’s residence, and with possible leads regarding the mysterious knife found in Anna’s room, and a description of the two men who killed Murf and K Murder, Mullson and his team finally got something to work with. They rushed along the hallway, until they reached the exit to the staff parking lot.
Mullson hopped into the driver’s side of the Expedition while Jack secured the front passenger seat. Agent McKoy, driving the FBI sedan, tailed Mullson who’d sped away. This time the team hoped for a break, but all depends on the whereabouts of Officers Smith and Brady who they needed to answer some critical questions. Sheriff Little-John had no problem telling Agent Hill the duo’s usual getaway — a small bar located a few miles west.
CHAPTER 12
A storm threatened over East Meadow Avenue — a small Long Island neighborhood attracted quite a few strangers for the past several hours, especially at the corner lot by the mortuary where Assassin #1 stood next to a USPS drop box, wearing a trench coat with burnt holes all over. He finally limped away and disappeared into the darkness. Usually all the buildings would have their lights turned off by eight o’ clock, now it was well into the night, and from within the mortuary light was radiating from beyond the closed blinds.
Inside, a body bag was resting on a small table shoved against the wall adjacent to the front door, next to where Officer Smith and Brady stood waiting. At random both men walked back and forth and checked their timepieces for what must have been the millionth time.
The undertaker entered the lobby from a side door and came swiftly towards the two officers; his hands twittered out of control as he scanned the room, afterward, checked to make sure the door was locked.
“I will do the cremation as requested,” he announced, ripping the bag open to look at the remains of Assassin #2.
Officer Smith shot him a wicked grin. “Good,” he warned the undertaker. “Make sure you leave no clues.”
The undertaker jammed a pen on a notepads. “Name and date of birth?” he said.
Officer Brady made a fist and smacked it against the palm of his other hand. “As my partner said,” he reminded the undertaker. “No clues.”
No sooner than the two men exited the building the undertaker slammed the door and turned the knob.
The rain was now drizzling as the two officers hurried towards a red pickup truck parked along the sidewalk, further down. The truck rumbled to life, the engine revved, tires squeaked against pavement as it raced down the street.
Officer Smith swung sharp on a side street and headed west; he speed up the wipers and stared through the windshield as the water slapped from the glass. He turned the radio to a channel playing heavy metal, and lowered the volume.
Brady had cracked the window to smoke a cigar, as he puffed he listened to the water hissing beneath the tires. He smiled as he picked up the knife they’d confiscated from the Mullson’s home. What a beautiful piece, he thought. The craftsmanship beyond anything he’d ever seen, surviving both oxidization and abrasion from the fire.
Mullson and his team almost came to a crawl as they approached a saloon; observing the surroundings they spotted mostly bikes and oversized pickups scattered in the parking lot. At the door a giant of a fellow wearing a leather suit, stood with his arms folded and his fists clenched; he unfolded his arms to remove a cigar sticking from his mouth.
“We are here to see
Officer Smith and Officer Brady,” said Agent Hill to the man who blew smoke in their faces.
“Strangers are not welcome!” the big fellow bellowed, with a powerful bass.
“The pleasure is yours,” said Agent Hill, stepping aside to let Jack handle the situation.
Jack grabbed the man by the balls and giggled; the fellow screamed in a high pitch voice and pointed towards the door for them to enter. After his colleagues all entered Jack remained outside, he had one more trick up his sleeve — he used one hand and hoisted the big fellow above the ground.
Inside, the scent of tobacco and whiskey tainted the air, but beneath lingered grunge and sweat. Some of the men hadn’t seen water for days, judging by their filthy clothing. But that didn’t prevent them from having a good time with plenty of sexy blondes to go around. Officer Smith and Brady already got word of unwanted guests nosing about; they fled through an exit door leading to a parking lot further away at the side of the building.
Mullson got there in time and spotted the side door closing as if somebody just exited. They dashed towards the suspicious door.
Officer Smith’s and Officer Brady’s hearts raced as they pumped their arms and stretched their legs as fast as they could, and they were pretty fast, for in no time they reached a red pickup. Jack spotted the two officers and had begun to advance towards them when Mullson, Agent Hill, and Agent McKoy comes tumbling out of the bar.
Smith and Brady pulled their guns and fired, shattering windshields and setting off car alarms.
The few bystanders who thought the two police officers were being attacked got even more confused as Agent Hill and McKoy screamed, “FBI, get down!”