Ray's Hell: A Crime Action Thriller

by Matt Rass

  RAY’S HELL

  MATT RASS

  PRESS REVENGE

  CONTENTS

  Title

  Mike Tyson

  DETROIT

  Domestic Situation

  The Stairway

  The Apartment

  The Residence

  The Precinct

  FRIDAY NIGHT

  Home for Good

  The Welcome

  Crooked Hotel

  Like Old Times

  Liverwurst Sandwiches

  The Parking Lot

  St Andrews

  The Holiday Inn

  The Stripclub

  Flashback

  Meet Dominique

  Tony’s Office

  The Stripper Apartment

  SATURDAY

  The Hangover

  Meet the Congressman

  CB & The Van

  Alex and Christmas

  Fire & Fight

  Sam’s Loft

  Alex’s Pad

  John Thomas

  Toll Stop

  Jayneen

  Andre’s

  Meet Emma and Mandy

  Tony, Mike & Andre

  Tommy’s House

  Car Chase

  Ray in the Mansion

  Hospital

  The Lance Drive

  Silver City Motel

  Ray Healed by Mandy

  The Cell Phone

  SUNDAY

  The Golf Course

  Ray & Mandy

  Emma and CB

  A Ride Into Town

  Emma Runs Away

  Fight!

  The FBI Motel

  Andre’s Pad

  Back to the FBI Motel

  Trailer Redux

  Emma Assault

  CB The Chauffeur

  The Mansion

  Emma’s Escape

  Ray to the Rescue

  The End

  Epilogue

  Untitled

  “Everybody has a plan

  until they get punched in the mouth.”

  —Mike Tyson

  The police cruiser raced along Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, past Rosa Parks, weaved through four blocks of Friday afternoon traffic, and then tore hard south, ripping across two empty lots before grounding to a halt near the rear of the Fisher Court Co-op. If the vehicle could pant like a tired dog with exhaustion, this is what it would look like: its motor heaving, tires smoking, and tailpipe coughing.

  A gunshot cracked the hot, humid air and a plunking round ricocheted off the cruiser’s back bumper—the bullet burying itself in the earth near a grey-haired granny standing not more than sixteen feet away. “Oh lawd!” she cried, clutching her heart. “I saw my life flash ’fore my eyes.”

  The old woman’s precocious eleven-year-old granddaughter tugged on her granny’s hand and asked,“What did you see, gran? What did you see?”

  The old woman hesitated to answer as the most attractive black man she had ever laid eyes upon emerged from his cruiser; his bulging muscles straining against his pressed blue uniform; his chiseled jawline and fine features as smooth as black marble. The old woman had only known one man her entire life—not counting young Jimmy Terry—but this man in front of her was something else entirely. He had the good looks of an angry Denzel Washington and the proud authority of Sidney Poitier. A switch was turned on under her dress and she almost peed in her panties.

  “Gran… Gran…” her granddaughter persisted.

  The old woman finally managed to squeeze out her pipes: “I saw this beautiful man holdin’ me in his great, big, lovin’ arms.”

  Ray Price stood in front of the old woman and her grandchild as erect as a missile on its launch day. The child looked up at him, then hid behind her grandmother, fearful of the black man’s hard stare.

  “Ma’am,” Ray said. “Sorry for comin’ so close to you.”

  “Mister,” she said. “You can come wherever you like near me.”

  Ray winced as if someone had squirted lemon juice in his eye. He tried to wipe the phantom sting away, then turned to try to catch the fool (or fools!) shooting their guns. But he didn’t see anyone that looked dumb enough to be taking potshots at the police.

  “Their stupidity gonna kill us all one day,” Granny proclaimed.

  Ray wasn’t worried about dodging any more bullets as he continued to scan the ghetto. He dared anyone to challenge him. But no one did.

  He wiped a sheen of sweat from his bald head with his massive hand and snapped the droplets toward the ground. It was July and the beginning of another brutally hot summer.

  DOMESTIC SITUATION

  A young, white police officer stood atop the cement steps outside the front door entrance to the eightplex with his weapon drawn. He was a little guy. It looked as though his uniform and Kevlar vest was wearing him and not the other way around. The relief in seeing Ray arrive was visible on his face. Ray thought a lot of these new cops looked as if they were recruited straight out of a high school chemistry class. Nerds.

  Ray walked up the steps to join him and read his name tag. “Whaddya got, Tim?”

  Tim spoke in a machine gun, rat-a-tat-tat, “Neighbors report a black female in a pink tracksuit threatening to burn the building down, sir.”

  Ray looked at the brick and mortar building and said, “And they believed her?”

  “I’ve been to this address before. She’s abusive.”

  “She attack you?”

  “Verbally.”

  “Your mama must’ve raised a sensitive boy,” Ray said. “Any warrants?”

  “No, sir.”

  Ray nodded toward the people gathered on the sidewalk. “Them the other residents?”

  “They were out here before I arrived.”

  “Did you ask ’em if they live here?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Go on then, ask who’s seen the suspect, what mental condition she’s in, and if she’s known to carry a weapon. We wanna make sure the building’s clear before we enter.”

  “Yes, sir.” Tim turned to descend the steps, but stopped halfway down and turned back to Ray. “We’re going to enter the building?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Ray said and thumbed over at Tim’s parked cruiser. “That your partner in there?”

  “No, sir. That’s Detective Offerman. We were fired upon at the corner up the block.”

  “Why’s a Detective riding with you?”

  “My regular partner called in sick.”

  Ray raised a single eyebrow. “It’s July.”

  Tim shrugged. “Something he ate.”

  “You can tell the Detective it’s safe,” Ray said. “They ain’t gonna try to kill y’all. Them shooting at cop cars is like kids throwing rocks at squirrels. They don’t expect to hit us.”

  Tim nodded and descended the stairs, still searching the neighborhood windows for threats, but holstering his weapon. The small crowd of residents that had gathered on the street started to disperse as he approached.

  “Hey,” Ray shouted at them. The crowd stopped and turned to face him. “Y’all come back here and answer this officer’s questions.” They all moped and mumbled but returned to their huddle and waited as the young Tim once again nodded his thanks to Ray before questioning them.

  Ray peered up at the fourth floor window and, for a brief second, caught sight of a revolver in someone’s hand as the curtain swung closed. He pressed the buzzer. After a couple of seconds, a woman’s voice on the intercom said, “Go the fuck away. There’s nothing goin’ on here.”

  “This’ the police, ma’am,” Ray said.

  “I know who it is and you ain’t welcome here.”

  “’Fraid that’s not u
p to you. I need to make sure you’re not gonna endanger your neighbors or yourself.”

  “Fuck them. They can mind their own goddamn business.”

  “C’mon now,” Ray said. “Open up.”

  He could tell she was stalling for time, her finger still on the intercom. “Is there someone else in the apartment with you? Another adult?”

  He heard the cry of a baby in the background.

  “Do the right thing for your kids and let me in, ma’am. Everything will turn out okay, I promise.”

  He turned to see Detective Offerman exit Tim’s vehicle as the building’s door buzzed open. “Damn,” Ray said, one hand opening the door. He recognized the old man. Offerman was an old crotchety white Detective in his early sixties. The boys called him either Cracker Jack or Jack-off.

  He slammed the cruiser’s door and recoiled as if the door gave off a shockwave. He was drunk.

  “Sonsabitches shot my car,” he hollered, fingering the hole near the gas tank. “They coulda blew us up.”

  “Me and the kid got this, Jack,” Ray called out. “Why don’tcha see if you can get a statement from one of the neighbors?”

  “Fuck that,” Offerman said, withdrawing his weapon. “I’ll get shot out here with these animals.”

  Ray checked the citizens to see if they had heard the dumb bastard refer to them as “animals”, but it didn’t appear anyone else took notice.

  Offerman peered up at the top apartment, fit a wad of chewing tobacco into his cheek, and ambled up the steps to the eightplex like a fat, old cowboy—his breathing heavy and labored. This sonuvabitch shoulda been a traffic supervisor, not a goddamn detective, Ray thought. Offerman was on a death path. Everyone on the force knew it. His wife had either died or left him—Ray couldn’t remember which, though it was probably the latter—so the old man was looking to either kill someone or get himself shot.

  Offerman snorted like a horse and spit in the grass. “Outta the way, son,” he said to Ray. “These people need to be taught a lesson.”

  Ray could smell whiskey on the detective’s breath. His eyes were bloodshot and he moved sluggishly, like he hadn’t been able to sleep it off and was still drunk from the night before. Ray hated drunks. His father had been a drunk and Ray had sworn to himself that he would never mess with drink. You could get lost in the bottom of a bottle and never have to find out what kind of man you were meant to be. It was a coward’s way out. You simply became a drunk and the bottle—like the pipe—would always come first.

  Ray grabbed Offerman’s wrist as he tried to push past him.

  “Hey, hey, hey?!” the detective said.

  “You look tired, Jack. Maybe you should leave this one to us?”

  Offerman yanked his arm free. “Don’t you dare touch me again, boy. I’m a fucking detective. Who the hell are you?” Offerman asked. “Nothing but cannon fodder that somehow made it home alive,” he said.

  It was a comment that sounded as if it had been carried around in the old bastard’s pocket for a long time, and was only now being pulled.

  Ray pushed Offerman through the entrance then up against the inside wall. He turned him around and held him a foot off the ground. “You can say whatever you want to me, old man, and it’ll sound like a fart in the wind, but you rollin’ up here drunk is a different story. I ain’t gonna get shot ’cos of you, and I ain’t gonna let you kill someone else, understand?”

  Ray then looked down at the gun Offerman had pointed at his groin. “I’ll shoot that big, black johnson right out your asshole ya don’t let go of me right now... son.”

  THE STAIRWAY

  Officer Tim stepped through the doorway and asked, “What’s up?”

  “Hold that door,” Ray said. “Me and your uncle Jack are goin’ upstairs.”

  Tim looked at his uncle to check for any indication of what had transpired for Ray to know they were related, but the older man didn’t offer up any clues. “Okay,” Tim said. “Neighbors say the suspect’s boyfriend may be up there. They heard her getting knocked around.”

  Ray narrowed his eyes at Offerman, “After you, Jack.”

  Offerman holstered his weapon, pulled down his vest, and straightened himself up. Ray’s eyes bored a hole the size of his fist through the old man’s face.

  “I’ll lead,” Offerman said and picked his weapon out from its holster again.

  “Like I said, Jack. After you.”

  Offerman looked past Ray to the young Tim. “Hold the door,” he said, and started up the stairs.

  Ray followed, his head crooked to the side looking up through the rails.

  “Woman has a revolver,” Ray said. “And a baby.”

  “There’s always a weapon,” Offerman said.

  Ray radioed in their approach, and the dispatcher gave the time of day. Offerman lolled his head and swayed up the stairs. If the stairwell was any more than a flight and a half up, there was a danger of what you’d find around the corner or leaning over a railing staring down at you, but this was an easy walk-up. No dark corners. No surprises. Still, Ray’s mind raced with all that could go wrong as soon as they entered the residence. Especially in the company of an old drunk cop with a death wish.

  Ray and Offerman heard the baby give a great big wail of a cry as they reached the top landing. The detective dug out his chew with his finger, chucked it into the corner, then rapped on the door. “Open up. Police. We know you have a weapon.”

  The woman yelled through the door. “Lemme get my clothes on.”

  “Bullshit,” Offerman said. “Open up now or I’m gonna kick in this door.”

  “I pay the rent for this motherfucker. I don’t have to let y’all in.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  Offerman nodded at Ray, indicating he should kick the door in. “Break, ’er down.”

  Ray cocked his head. “She got a baby and a gun in there. I ain’t kicking her door down.”

  “You ain’t gonna do it? Fine. I’m gonna show you what happens when people disrespect the law.” Offerman gripped the doorknob and tried to shoulder the door open.

  The woman shrieked.

  “Goddammit,” Offerman said. “Must be a fire door.”

  He huffed and he puffed and he shouldered the door again, bouncing off of it and almost launching himself back down the stairs. He returned to the front of the door, more determined than ever, and aimed his gun at the lock.

  Ray snatched the Detective’s hand and raised the weapon toward the ceiling. “Don’t shoot through the door,” he said.

  Offerman roared, pulled his hand loose from Ray’s grip and shouldered the door, this time falling over himself and into the apartment, spilling onto the floor—as his gun clattered out of his hands and spun under the dining table.

  THE APARTMENT

  The apartment was laid out in a straight line as entrance, dining room, and kitchen. Ray jumped over the old man and braced himself against the side wall that formed an arch separating the living room from the dining room. “Everyone turn around and put your hands on your head,” he shouted. He could see down the hall that led to the bedrooms and bathroom, but he couldn’t hear any movement in the apartment. Offerman looked up at him with horror in his eyes, knowing just how vulnerable he was spread eagle on the floor.

  “Get it,” Ray said, eyeballing the weapon under the table.

  Offerman started swimming on the linoleum toward his loose weapon like a fisherman diving into the river after his lost catch. Ray stepped between him and the vacant living room, protecting the dumb sunovabitch from any danger. “Police,” Ray shouted. “We know you have a weapon. Put your hands on your head and exit whichever fucking door you’re hiding behind.”

  A woman’s voice from down the hall hollered back, “I’m recording this shit with my phone.”

  “That’s fine,” Ray said. “You can put it on YouTube after, but I need you to put your hands on your head and exit the room you’re in.”

  The Detective knocked over the dining chairs
as he retrieved his weapon and Ray knew as surely as the sun will rise and cook this rock, that shit was gonna be a whole lot more complicated now.

  “I’ma count to three,” Ray said. “And you come out.”

  “No way,” the woman hollered. “You’re gonna shoot me.”

  Ray heard Offerman mutter, “Fucking welfare mamas,” before the older man joined his side and whispered, “I tell you to break a goddamn door down, I expect you to break a goddamn door down.”

  “We play the rest of this scene cool,” Ray said, ignoring the Detective’s words. “You’re comin’ at this too hot, Jack.”

  The woman hollered again from down the hall, “Y’all pick yourselves up off my floor yet?”

  Ray could see the Detective’s face go from shrimp pink to lobster red.

  “That’s it,” Offerman said and started marching down the hall. “I’m gonna teach this fucking bitch a lesson.”

  “Jack,” Ray shouted.

  The Detective reached the first door to his left and raised his foot to kick it open as the woman exited one of the other doors at the far end of the hall.

  “Hands on your head,” Ray shouted.

  The Detective hobbled as he dropped his foot back to the ground and attempted to point his weapon at her. Just then the door Offerman stood in front of opened and the flash of a gun detonated the side of the Detective’s head.

  The woman shrieked and ducked into the opposite room she had exited. Ray dropped to one knee and aimed his weapon at the doorway the killer was behind but the young thug stepped out and fired at the same time Ray did.

  Ray’s bullet blew out the door’s frame and the thug’s bullet punched into Ray’s chest. It was like being kicked by a horse. Ray’s knee buckled and he toppled over, his gun spilling on the ground just as lazily as the drunk detective’s. The thug quickly followed up the first round with another that smashed into the floor between Ray’s legs with the power of a fireman’s ax, sending wood splinters into his face. He spit out the fibers like broken teeth. And this is how it was gonna end, he thought. A young thug walking him down with a gun in his hand. It was a frightening reality. The third bullet whizzed by Ray’s head. He could actually feel the wind as it passed before it exploded into the wall behind him. His whole right side was numb. Even if his weapon was within reach, he couldn’t lift his right arm to retrieve it. He could feel the blood seeping down his stomach and filling his waistband.