Medium Dead

by Chris Dolley

  Chapter Ten

  “Hey,” shouted Brenda, pointing theatrically at the door to the Cassini convenience store some eight feet away. “There’s a couple of guys in there robbing the store. Call 911!”

  Up and down the street, people stopped what they were doing and looked her way. None reached for a phone.

  The door to Cassini’s flew open and out came Thug, six foot four of tattooed attitude. He glared at Brenda, then up and down the street.

  “Nothing’s happening here,” he shouted. “The woman’s crazy.” He pointed at his temple and did the finger twirl.

  Brenda didn’t appreciate the finger twirl.

  “Who you calling crazy, big nose?”

  Thug didn’t appear to appreciate the allusion to his broken nose.

  “Shut the fuck up, you crazy bitch.”

  “Or what, big nose? You gonna come over here and hit me with your trunk?”

  Thug produced a gun from his waistband and pointed it at Brian. “You’ve five seconds to fuck off or the kid gets it.”

  Brenda folded her arms, right over left, then – thinking that left over right felt more menacing – switched.

  “In front of all these witnesses? Are you an idiot? Has that nose sucked all the sense out of you?”

  She was enjoying this. There was something exhilarating – cathartic even – about hurling insults at a street thug. Never in a million years would she have dared to even look someone like Big Nose in the eye and yet, with Brian’s protective shield, she could do anything she wanted. As long as Brian wasn’t lying about the protective shield...

  ‘It’s operating at maximum power,’ said Brian’s voice in her head. Disconcertingly it had the slippery tone of a used snake oil salesman.

  “One,” said Thug.

  A small crowd was beginning to gather, most people stayed well back, those close by stood and stared. Only one man tried to intervene – a short, middle-aged man who’d been standing in the neighboring doorway. He sidled up to Brenda, glancing nervously at Thug with every step, nodding his head to him like a vassal to his master.

  “Lady,” he said in a heavy Italian accent. “Please come away. This man he dangerous. He will hurt you and your son.”

  “Two.”

  Brenda shrugged him off, not taking her eyes off Thug. “Not yet,” she said. “I’m waiting to see if Big Nose can count to five.”

  Big Nose, aka Thug, almost lost it. He bared gritted teeth and narrowed his eyes in a feral glare.

  “Three,” he spat.

  Brenda’s middle-aged Italian grabbed her arm again. “Please, lady! Come with me.”

  A woman from the crowd joined in. “He’s right. It’s not worth it. Walk away.”

  Brenda shrugged them all off and pulled Brian towards her, pushing him behind her.

  Thug’s gun swung to point at Brenda. He was beginning to sweat. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  “Four,” he said. “Standing in front of your kid won’t help. I’ll shoot you both.”

  The small crowd, which up to that point, had been growing, split. People nearest turned and ran. People over the road, behind Brenda, dived for cover. Others crouched, or pulled their children close.

  Only Brenda remained calm. “Hey!” she shouted. “You in the store. Your boyfriend’s out here making a fool of himself.”

  Time, as it does during moments of extreme stress, slowed to a geriatric crawl. Brenda’s internal voice, which for the past ten minutes had been hiding speechless with her hands welded in front of her eyes, screamed at Brenda in disbelief. What are you doing? Are you insane? You’re staring down a gun barrel thinking that bullets are going to bounce off you! Well, wake up, Brenda! Bullets don’t bounce off human flesh!

  Brian interceded. ‘You’re doing brilliantly and you’re safe. The man’s bluffing. He wants to shoot, but he knows there’s too many witnesses. He wants you to back down. Follow the plan and everyone wins.’

  The plan. She couldn’t believe Brian’s plan when he’d first told her a couple of minutes earlier. They were in the middle of a case trying to track down the killer of a murdered girl. They had a lead that maybe the girl had been snatched by a gang to put pressure on the father. A sensible plan would have been to phone the police, let them save Frank Cassini, then have Brian follow the two hoods back to their base and...

  That’s where her sensible plan had petered out. If only Brian had an inner ear he could project to listen to remote conversations. But no, he’d said, we’ve got to visit the gang in person and question them. And just because we’re on a case doesn’t mean we look the other way if we see another crime. We’re crime fighters, Bren, we don’t get to pick and choose. This neighborhood needs our help and my plan achieves that and gets us an invite to see the gang’s boss.

  As long as Brenda wasn’t dead. Or fending off the media after a hundred witnesses reported seeing bullets bounce off her face.

  Brenda was still arguing with her various selves when the store door burst open and Enforcer ran out.

  “What the fuck is going on out here?” he said. “Put that gun down and get back inside. And you assholes, beat it! There’s nothing to see.”

  Big Nose didn’t move. His gun remained leveled at Brenda.

  “Scott! Inside!”

  “Go on, Big Nose,” said Brenda. “Your boyfriend’s calling.”

  Brenda felt Brian’s hands encircle her waist and lock together. His body pressed tighter against her back too.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

  There was no reply. Had he sensed that Big Nose was about to shoot? Was he strengthening her shield? Preparing to teleport? Preparing to shapeshift her into an armor-plated beetle?

  “Scott!”

  Big Nose lowered the gun. His scowl morphed into a sneer. “I’ve seen your face, bitch. One night soon you’re gonna see mine.”

  He ran a finger across his throat.

  “I’ll leave the door unlocked,” said Brenda.

  Big Nose didn’t just reach the end of his tether, he overshot it at a gallop. Up came the gun, his face contorted in rage. Enforcer grabbed him from behind and tried to wrestle his gun arm down.

  “No!” shouted Enforcer as they struggled, faces reddening. “We’ll deal with her later. Come inside!”

  He pulled Big Nose back towards the store.

  “Go on,” said Brenda. “Run inside and hide. You hoods are all the same. Pathetic!”

  For a moment it looked as though both men were going to charge Brenda, but Enforcer maintained his grip on his colleague.

  “Lady, you are really pushing it,” he said. “Now fuck off before I let him loose on you.”

  “What, him?” She stared Big Nose in the eye. “Take away his gun and he’s nothing. Come on, Big Nose. You and me. No guns, no knives.”

  She stepped forward, breaking Brian’s hold around her waist and beckoned at the six foot four struggling mass of muscle. “From what I hear you only hit old men when your boyfriend pins their arms back. You can’t hit a moving target.”

  Brenda put up her fists and danced in front of him. Brenda’s inner voice hung her head in her hands. Brenda, Brenda, Brenda.

  But Brenda was enjoying this. Invulnerability was such a wonderful thing to have. Now all she needed was Brian to make good with his other promise.

  “I’ll kill you!” shrieked Big Nose, struggling wildly. Enforcer had given up trying to pull him inside the shop. He was having enough trouble preventing him from flying at Brenda.

  Brian sidled up to the rear of the struggling pair, reaching tentatively towards Enforcer and touching him ever so lightly on the elbow.

  “Do you want me to help you get him back inside?” he asked.

  “Fuck off, kid,” snarled Enforcer.

  Brian let his outstretched hand linger, brushing the tips of his fingers against Big Nose’s arm, before standing back.

  The crowd, which had run for cover earlier, was now back and growing. People
were coming out of doorways all along the street. Traffic was stopping. People were asking what’s happening? Who is she?

  And Brenda was dancing. She’d seen footage of Muhammad Ali. She knew how to float like butterfly – even in a tight dress and heels. And she knew how to goad an opponent.

  “Big Nose is going down in five. He too ugly to realize.”

  Brian knew a thing or two about goading, too.

  “It’s not too late to run, Mr. Nose,” he said. “No one’ll blame you for being a big girlie chicken.”

  Big Nose broke free and charged at Brenda ... like a toppling redwood. Brian had tied his shoelaces together.

  Big Nose’s gun bounced out of his hand and skittered across the road. With a timely telekinetic shove from Brian it not only changed direction slightly, but maintained its speed all the way to a drain at the curb opposite. Splash.

  Brenda stopped dancing to peer down at Big Nose. “Boy, you are one pathetic hoodlum.”

  Big Nose jack-knifed on the ground, his hands wrenching at his shoelaces, pulling and prying. Brenda used the time to move into the center of the road and Brian snuck into the restaurant next door.

  Try as he might, Big Nose couldn’t undo the laces. Brian had fashioned a knot fused at its core.

  Brenda milked the situation, turning to the crowd. “Is there a grown-up who can help Big Nose with his laces?”

  A few people laughed. Most kept quiet. There had to be around three hundred people watching from various vantage points. Most of them looked confused. Unsure if they were watching an unlikely reincarnation of Joan of Arc, or an impending train wreck. Brenda wondered if anyone had called the police. She hadn’t seen one person with a phone to their ear.

  Over to Brenda’s right, Enforcer bent down to help his friend. Big Nose pushed him away. Then started loosening the laces on each shoe, yanking one off then the other.

  “You are going to pay big time,” he shouted to Brenda as he jumped to his stockinged feet.

  Brenda braced herself. And that’s when she noticed she was on her own.

  ‘Brian! Where are you?’

  No answer. He’d left her in the lurch again.

  She disguised her panic with a breezy smile and danced up onto her toes.

  ‘Brian!’

  Big Nose charged across the road towards her, his face contorted into a growl, his enormous arms protruding from his shoulders like a couple of giant pincers.

  ‘Duck left!’ came a shout emanating from the center of her brain. She ducked left. Big Nose’s huge right arm swung prematurely as though he was trying to grab someone standing in front of Brenda and over to her right. The whole top half of his body followed this wild lurch, spinning him counter-clockwise. He lost his balance, tripped over his legs, shot past the ducking Brenda and crashed to the ground.

  ‘Get ready to catch,’ said Brian.

  ‘Catch what?’ Brenda straightened up to look for Brian. Just in time to see a red bottle flying towards her from the sidewalk. She caught it. Just. It was a squeezy bottle of tomato ketchup.

  ‘Remember,’ said Brian. ‘The plan is to ridicule not maim. If you beat him up, people are going to think you’re special and nothing changes. But if you make him look a fool, then they’re going to think he’s a joke and away goes the fear and the wall of silence that keeps these gangs in business.’

  That was the elegance of Brian’s plan. Now came the fun part.

  Big Nose was incensed. He’d risen to his knees and had just slapped the ground hard with both hands when Brenda struck. A one second burst of ketchup to the back of his neck. He swung round, startled, red-faced and soon to get even redder. A half-second burst of red gloop to the eyes.

  Brenda danced backwards out of range of a blindly swinging Big Nose, her steps, by necessity – thanks to the dress – short and fast, her thumbs squeezing the bottle, a red stream arcing from her hands to his face.

  ‘Throw the ketchup to the crowd,’ said Brian. ‘And get ready to catch.’

  Brenda lobbed the ketchup towards a group of women to her right. Most recoiled as if thrown something radioactive. But one reached out and caught it. Brenda noticed Brian out of the corner of her eye and turned towards him. He was in the road now, moving behind the first rank of onlookers. He tossed a yellow bottle towards her. She caught it. Another squeezy bottle. This time mustard. Nice.

  Big Nose was on his feet, blinking. He’d rubbed most of the ketchup away from his eyes, but from the way he was flexing his shoulders most of the ketchup on his neck was now dribbling down his back.

  He charged, but this time slowed a yard or two short from Brenda and adopted a boxer’s stance. He wasn’t taking any chances. Brenda was on the balls of her feet too, waiting for instructions.

  She never heard Enforcer come up behind her. She didn’t have time to react when his hands dug into her biceps and squeezed her body together like a vice. Where was her protective shield? ‘Brian? What’s happening?’

  Big Nose smiled and drew back his right shoulder ready to unleash a punch to her face.

  ‘Don’t move,’ said Brian.

  Don’t move! She was about to get her nose broken. Her nice new nose. Shouldn’t she kick out with her feet? Move her head to the right or left?

  Big Nose swung, stepping into the punch and unleashing his full weight behind it. It hit Brenda hard – in the hair that cascaded around and above her left ear – but hit Enforcer harder, crashing into his jaw. Something had deflected the punch wide. Whether it was the late activation of her protective shield or Brian’s telekinesis she didn’t care.

  Enforcer staggered backwards, releasing the startled Brenda who ducked to her right before bouncing back up with both hands clenched around fifteen ounces of hot, tangy mustard.

  The even more startled Big Nose, who was staring alternately at his right fist and his fallen comrade, received a one-second burst to his ear.

  Someone in the crowd laughed nervously. Others less so. Someone clapped.

  And Brenda danced. She threw the mustard bottle into the crowd. Several hands reached for it. Brian tossed her a new bottle. Mayonnaise.

  Big Nose flapped at the mustard dripping from his left ear, but he was more concerned about his friend, who was lying on his back, mouth open and looking suspiciously unconscious.

  “Sorry,” he said to his prone companion. “I don’t know what happened.”

  Brenda glooped them both with salad dressing.

  Big Nose exploded. Growling, he came at her, swinging blindly, his face streaked and dripping, his hair lightly tossed in a mustard vinaigrette.

  That’s when the Black Forest Gateau hit him – thrown out of the crowd by Brian – plenty of cream and, from what Brenda could see, quite a bit of jam and chocolate too. It hit Big Nose square on the side of his face and showed considerable adhesive qualities. Big Nose tried to scrape it off, but strangely experienced a breakdown in hand eye co-ordination – or, more accurately, finger eye co-ordination. His right eye, which one-second earlier had been full of cream was now accommodating an index finger too.

  “Ow!” he shouted, followed by “ulpffft.” Moral: it is never wise to open your mouth wide whilst standing within squirting distance of an opponent with a 15 ounce squeezy bottle of salad dressing.

  The crowd went wild. A woman ran out of the crowd and hit Big Nose with a stream of ketchup. A man followed suit with mustard.

  “Anyone have any rotten fruit?” Brenda shouted. “Gotta be some slops from those restaurants.”

  Scores of people ran towards the stores. An excited buzz ran through the crowd.

  ‘And now the finale,’ said Brian. ‘Pull down his trousers.’

  ‘What?’ said Brenda.

  ‘His trousers. Before he gets completely covered in gloop.’

  Brenda paused. He was wearing sweats so it should be a simple tug. But she’d have to get past those long flailing arms. He couldn’t see much – every time he wiped his face someone glooped him again – but he coul
d still grab her by random chance.

  She circled behind him ... and darted in. A quick grab and ... tug.

  He was wearing the briefest and brightest neon yellow thong.

  Shrieks erupted from the crowd. One woman may have wet herself. Camera phones snapped and Big Nose, with his trousers wrapped around his ankles, tripped and toppled backwards.

  What happened in the next three minutes could have come straight from a Laurel and Hardy film. No custard pies, but surprising quantities of hummus, eggs, coleslaw, sauce and noodles. Scores of people ran from stores, their arms full of things to throw and squirt. Storekeepers followed them, reveling in a chance for revenge. And, as everyone knows, revenge is a dish best smeared in your tormentor’s face. Or, in the case of chili sauce, squirted inside his thong.

  Brian and Brenda stood and watched from the sidewalk as the two hoods were pelted, splatted, glooped and smeared.

  “Do you really think the gang’s hold over this neighborhood has been broken?” asked Brenda.

  “I don’t think these two will work this town again. Street thugs are like Regency heroines. Reputation is everything. And these two are thoroughly compromised.”

  “But won’t the gang just send in another two hoods?”

  “Definitely, but an event like this changes people. It emboldens them, gives them hope. You’ve given them hope. And, maybe, one or two will now come forward and testify to the police.”

  It sounded too good to be true.

  “You have to start somewhere, Bren. A march of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Or, in this case, a canary yellow thong.”

  A police siren sounded in the distance. It was hard to hear at first amidst the shrieks and laughs of the street wide food fight. But it soon grew louder. And it was coming from more than one direction.

  “Time to leave,” said Brian. “Let’s get back to the alley and change our appearance before the media arrives. Then we’ll see who comes to bail these two thugs out.”

  This was the second part of Brian’s plan – the sketchy part he’d glossed over earlier with an impatient wave of his hand and an ‘it’ll work, trust me.’