by Tom Fowler
"Just out for a drive," I said. I slowed my pace but took another couple steps.
"That's far enough," the goon said. He didn’t point his gun at me. Still, I could hear my elevated pulse in my ears. "What are you doing here?"
"I came to take your boss in," I said.
"Can't let you do that."
"You haven't heard the rest of my offer yet."
The goon frowned. "Fine," he said. "Let's hear it."
"You know your boss isn't a popular guy right now," I said. "He knows it, too. I'm not the only person out looking for him. But I am the only person who wants to take him out of here alive."
"But you still want to take him in."
"'Alive' is the key word. Maybe your boss would rather deal with Tony Rizzo and his men. Good luck getting this kind of promise from them."
"Boss doesn't want to go anywhere," the goon said.
I said, "How does he think this is going to end? Anyone but me comes here, and your boss is leaving in a body bag. You are, too, by the way."
"Maybe nobody else will come for him."
"I found him. It wasn't difficult. I'm brilliant, sure, so it didn't take me long, but I'm sure someone else will figure it out."
The logic made the man on the porch think. After a moment, he shook his head. "Can't let you take the boss," he said, "alive or otherwise. Get out of here."
"Can't," I said.
He raised his gun.
I raised mine.
We were about ten yards apart. From this range, I peppered the valuable spots on many a paper target. I presumed the man on the porch was a capable shot, too. But how capable?
"How good are you with a pistol?" I said.
"Good enough."
"You're going to need to be a whole lot better. See, I'm wearing a vest. So if you want to put me down, you've got to make a head shot. All I have to do is go for center mass."
"How do you know I got no vest?" he said.
"Not under that silly T-shirt," I said.
The goon raised the gun a touch more. He was aligning it with my head. He'd have to be a good shot to hit me. And I just gave him something to worry about, which would muck with his breathing and pulse. I assigned him a ten percent chance to hit me. I had about a 100 percent chance to hit him.
"I'm going to need you to leave," he said.
"Can't," I said again.
He held the gun on me. I did the same. It grew heavy. We couldn't have this standoff forever. Then the goon surprised me by setting his gun down on the porch.
"Toss yours, too," he said. "We'll settle this the old-fashioned way."
"Fair enough," I said. I tossed the gun about fifteen feet to my left. It landed with a soft plop in the grass.
"It'll be fair enough when you take that vest off," he said.
"Kick your gun away, then," I said. "You could pick it up and shoot me."
He nodded and kicked the gun toward the far end of the porch. I couldn't see it move but heard it slide across the wood and thud into something at the end. I took my windbreaker off, tossed it aside, then undid the bullet-resistant vest and tossed it atop the jacket.
"Now it's fair," the goon said. He ran down the stairs toward me. I took a defensive stance.
Clear of the stairs, he kept running. He stopped a few feet short and launched a kick at my face. His weight stayed back, and his balance remained good. It was a strike he practiced many times before. This guy was not the typical one-punch brute. I saw the kick coming and leaned away. He followed up with a series of punches, each of which I blocked. I tried for a wristlock on his last punch, but he wriggled free before I could cinch it in.
More punches followed. I blunted them all. After blocking a right with my right forearm, I turned my arm, stepped forward, and drove my elbow into my opponent's face. I aimed for his nose, but he twisted enough at the last instant to take the blow on his cheekbone. It still staggered him a step. While the goon's hands instinctively went up, I planted my foot and kicked him hard in the stomach. He doubled over but covered his face. I stepped beside him and pushed him backward over my leg. He tumbled to the ground.
I like to think myself above putting the boot to a foe while he's down. The reality is fair fights are for suckers and competitions. I kicked his ribs, then his back as he rolled away. I launched another to only glance off his back as he moved and got into a crouch. When he did, I spied the knife in his hand just before it flashed out at me. I dodged as best I could but still felt the blade bite into me. I glanced down at my shirt and saw a small tear. Could have been worse.
While I learned how to fight people with knives, it's never been something I cared for. A skilled opponent is at least predictable. The average person with a knife has a much lower skill level, but their moves are wild and unpredictable. They only need to get lucky and nick an artery once, and it's all over. I backed away as the goon got to his feet, swinging the knife in a wide arc to keep me at bay. No worries there.
I needed a weapon to make this fairer again. When I tossed my gun, I threw it to my left. The fight took us—or maybe my opponent steered us—to the right. My gun was too far away and so was his. Enough trees filled the yard for me to find a stick. It would be better than nothing.
He came at me with the knife, slashing at my chest. I stepped to the side and shoved him away. The goon stumbled forward. I looked around my immediate area for a good-sized stick or discarded baseball bat. Five feet to my right, a stick at least as wide as my thumb and about two feet long lay in the grass. I sprinted, grabbed it, and held it before me as my opponent came forward with the knife again.
Blocking it with the stick would be too difficult. Instead, I would need to avoid the blade or hinder the arm, then retaliate with the stick. I settled for avoiding the first few stabs. They were short and quick, though, and I found no chance to respond. After a third stab, I saw my opponent shift his grip on the hilt. He did a backhanded slash, which I stepped to the rear and my right to avoid. The blade missed gutting me by less than an inch.
The attack gave me an opening, and I took it. I smashed the goon behind the knee with the stick. His leg crumpled and forced him down on one knee. Before he could bring the knife around again, I whacked his hand. He didn't drop the knife. I whacked it again. The knife fell to the grass. He tried to curl up on defense, but I was quicker. I clubbed him in the back of the head with the stick. He fell forward and groaned.
I walloped him in the skull again when he tried to get up. Then again. And some more until he stopped moving. Blood trickled from his head. The stick finally broke. I nudged my fallen foe with my foot. He didn't move or make a sound. I knelt behind him and felt for a pulse. Not strong, but it was there. Once I corralled Esposito, I would summon an ambulance for this fellow. In the meantime, I retrieved my gun and put the vest and jacket back on. The slash across my midsection barked when I tightened the vest. Stitches were probably in my future. For now, I felt good enough to plow ahead.
I searched the fallen goon and found a set of keys. Gun in one hand and keys in the other, I walked up the four steps to the porch. Esposito was inside. He could have a gun and feel cornered. Feeling cornered might compel him to use said gun. I promised to bring him in alive if possible. If he gave me the chance, I would. If required to shoot him, I would do that, too.
The door stared back at me. One way or another, this whole mess would end soon.
I tried the door. Smarter than the average goon, he left it locked. I crouched to the left of the door. With my gun in my right hand, I finagled the key into the deadbolt with my left. Being right-handed made this a challenge. I got the deadbolt unlocked and started working on the main lock. The keys nearly tumbled from my grip at one point. Doing this in front of the door would have been easier, but then it also would have been easier for Esposito to shoot through the panels. Life is all about tradeoffs.
After a minute of fumbling, I got the lock undone. I felt like the stereotypical teenage boy fumbling to get his first girlfri
end’s bra unhooked. Those challenges never plagued me in my youth. I opened the door while crouching beside it, raised my gun, and waited. No bullets. I swung into the doorway. No one waited. As far as I could tell, the house was empty.
I stood and walked inside. A shabby living room greeted me. The furniture needed to be replaced a generation ago. Incinerating the carpet would have been a mercy. An empty pizza box sat on the coffee table, completing the disheveled look. Books and magazines lay about, amid a lot of empty soda and beer bottles. The TV played national news. I found the remote and turned it off. Esposito already knew I was here.
The dining room and kitchen were deserted. Neither looked better than the living room. The entire house was outdated. If someone younger than seventy were to buy it, it would need a complete revamp. I poked around more. Even the coat closet was empty of all but a couple of light jackets.
I ventured upstairs, gun barrel leading the way. As I got near the top, I could see light emitting from under one door. It could have been a decoy, but I doubted Esposito was so subtle. “Esposito, I’m coming up,” I said, stopping a couple steps shy of the top. No reply. “I took care of your goon. I’m not here to kill you.”
“Go away,” came a reply from the bedroom.
“I’m here to take you in,” I said. “You won’t get the same courtesy from Tony Rizzo’s crew.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying you can come with me, or I can tell Tony where you are.”
“Yeah?” Esposito said. “What if I just shoot you?”
“You’re welcome to try,” I said, “but you should know I have a gun. If you come out with your own, my promise to take you in alive goes out the window.”
“You’re going to arrest me?”
“I’m going to drive you to the people who can,” I said.
“What if I don’t go quietly?” Esposito said.
“Ask your goon how well it went for him,” I said. “Though you might want to wait until he wakes up.”
No reply came. I waited on the stairs. Esposito had a lot to think about. Whatever empire he thought he would build crumbled around him. Defiance wouldn’t help him. If Tony’s men found him, the best he could hope for would be a quick death. If he came out of the bedroom guns blazing, I would shoot him. If he surrendered, he would go to jail, and the county would build a case against him to keep him there for a long time. He didn’t have a good option. I hoped he decided against taking the easy way out in suicide by PI.
“All right,” Esposito said a minute later. “I’ll go quietly.”
“You have a gun?” I said.
“Of course I have a fucking gun.”
“Hold it out the door. Two fingers. Then toss it away.”
I crouched behind the wooden banister as much as I could. Between the posts and being a couple steps down, I didn’t think Esposito would have an easy shot. He would need to find me first. I could see the bedroom door and knew where to fire. I was ready. The door opened. Esposito did what I told him, holding the pistol out with a two-finger grip. He tossed it into the hallway.
“Come out slowly,” I said. “Keep your hands up.”
“I know the drill,” Esposito grumbled. He walked from the room. His eyes had circles under them, and he needed a shave several days ago. I walked to the top of the stairs.
“Turn around,” I said.
Esposito glared at me. “Make me,” he said, in another little act of defiance.
“OK,” I said. I kicked him in the side of the thigh. When his body bent toward me, I used my free hand and shoved him hard into the wall. His head dented the drywall.
“Jesus Christ,” he said.
“You asked for it,” I said. I took a zip tie out of my pocket and bound Esposito’s hands behind his back.
He turned around and looked at me. His eyes showed no fire, and his eyelids looked heavy. This was a defeated man. “You’re really gonna take me in?” he said.
“I’m not a killer,” I said.
Esposito nodded. I led him downstairs. “You need anything for the ride?” I said as we walked into the living room.
“No,” he said.
Once through, I opened the front door. The goon still lay unconscious in the yard. “He ain’t dead, is he?” Esposito said.
“He wasn’t when I came into the house,” I said. I took out my phone and dialed 911 to get an ambulance. While it rang, I led Esposito onto the porch and down the steps. The 911 operator picked up. I asked for an ambulance.
As I did, I heard a loud bang, like a gunshot. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Esposito’s head burst. He toppled over as I dropped to the ground. My heart raced. At the end of the driveway, I saw a car speed away. It looked an awful lot like the car I saw turning into the courthouse.
Someone followed me here.
I glanced at Esposito. The upper right part of his head was missing above his eye. Blood and gray bits covered the walkway and the left side of my windbreaker. Probably my face, too, but I didn’t want to check. I stayed in the grass. The car and shooter were gone. My pulse slowed, and my breathing became more normal. From the grass near me, I heard the 911 operator.
“Sir?” she said as I picked up my phone, “is everything all right?”
My hand shook from adrenaline as I held the phone. “I think I need more than an ambulance,” I said.
Chapter 23
The St. Mary’s County sheriff’s deputies had their share of questions for me. After the coroner’s men took Esposito away, the paramedics checked me out. The cut measured about five inches long but wasn’t deep. A round of wound cleaning and staples later, the medics took Esposito’s goon away in the ambulance. I was left alone with the deputies. I had wiped as much blood and other fun biological matter off myself and my clothes as I could. Now I dealt with their questions, some at the scene and some at the sheriff’s office.
They knew soon I didn’t shoot anyone. Their people determined I had no gunshot residue on my body, my gun hadn’t been fired in a while, and the bullet they dug out of Esposito would never fit into it anyway. I answered their questions as best I could. No, I didn’t know who the shooter was. No, I hadn’t noticed someone following me. Yes, it’s true I may not be the best person at knowing if I’m being followed. Yes, I went there to take Esposito in alive.
One question stumped me, however: why didn’t I call for an ambulance before going into the house? If I had, Detective Rollo pointed out, Esposito may still be alive. I conceded his point. The paramedics, perhaps accompanied by deputies, may well have scared off the shooter. I pointed out the goon was breathing and stable when I went into the house, thus not in need of urgent medical help. I also pointed out the brazenness of the shooter. He may have been undeterred by first responders and would still have enjoyed a significant head start on any pursuit.
In the end, St. Mary’s County talked to Gonzalez and Leon Sharpe. I heard neither was happy to be awoken with questions about me, but both vouched for me. It was nearly two in the morning when I got dropped off at the crime scene and got into the BMW. I felt glad the cops hadn’t asked for its registration. A couple still processed the scene. Yellow tape marked off the area where Esposito fell and covered the front door of the house.
I drove home. With the late hour and my lead foot, I made it in ninety minutes. I formulated my own set of questions about what happened, and I worked most of them out on the drive. Tomorrow, I would try to get answers if my quarry were still in town.
The answers came to me. They were what I expected. After I ate breakfast, a car pulled up in front of my house. I looked out my front window. The car was dark, German, and appeared fast. It looked exactly like the car following me into St. Mary’s County and sped away after Esposito got shot. Gabriella Rizzo stepped out of the passenger’s door and came up my walkway. She gave me a small wave as the car drove away. I opened the door. “Good morning, C.T.” Her smile and the morning sun playing on her skin made her look gorgeous.
“Good morning,” I said, opening the door wider. Gabriella walked in and sat on my couch. I locked up and went back to the window. The car didn’t come back.
“Jonah isn’t returning until I call him,” Gabriella said.
“Jonah?” I said. “Sounds like a nice Italian name.”
Gabriella smiled. “Every now and then, Dad will hire a non-Italian.”
“I presume he’s the man you were telling me about earlier.”
“He is.”
“And now he works for you,” I said.
“He does,” Gabriella said with a nod. “He’d been with Dad over twenty years. I didn’t want him getting away.”
“So now he’s your bodyguard?”
“More or less.” Gabriella shrugged. “I don’t know I’ve needed him for that but it’s nice having him around.”
“And sometimes, you find a way for him to use his particular set of skills,” I said.
“That’s a good way of putting it.”
I walked into the kitchen and grabbed two IPAs from my replenished stock. Gabriella took one with a smile. “Jonah followed me,” I said.
“He said you were pretty easy to tail,” Gabriella said.
“He didn’t follow me of his own volition.”
“No,” she said, “he didn’t. I knew you would find Esposito eventually.”
“And you wanted him dead,” I said.
“He was trying to take over from my father,” Gabriella said. “If he lived, he would regroup and try again.”
I drank some of the beer. This was earlier than I liked to start drinking, but the current conversation offered a good excuse. “Your father didn’t have people trying to find him?” I said.
“Sure,” Gabriella said, “but his men are brutes. They have no subtlety. They may as well ask questions with their fists. If they can’t beat an answer out of someone, they’re not going to learn anything.”
I nodded. Her explanation made sense based on what I had seen of Tony’s men. “And you had Jonah shadow me instead,” I said.