Eldorado

by Jay Allan Storey

  Mikey’s eyes remained fixed on Crack’s right hand, which continued to stroke the gun in his belt.

  “Well I know!” Crack suddenly screamed into Mikey’s face. “He’s a fucking schoolteacher!” The fingers of Crack’s right hand tightened around his gun. “And this bourgeois, piece-of-shit schoolteacher – who doesn’t have the smarts to tie his own shoes, broke in here – with a gun in his belt – and camped out twenty feet from where I was sitting!”

  The veins stood out on Crack’s neck and forehead and the tentacles of the octopus danced erratically.

  “Do you know how that makes me feel!” Crack screeched, and he whipped the gun from his belt and shot Mikey’s left kneecap. Mikey screamed and fell to the floor, blood gushing from his wound.

  “Please don’t kill me!” he pleaded.

  “Don’t kill you?” said Crack, with mock politeness. “Well, I could just leave you lying there. How would that be?”

  “No – help me!” Mikey was crying and writhing on the floor.

  “Oh God – I’m so sorry,” Richard whispered under his breath.

  “Help you?” The intensity of Crack’s voice rose again. “The way you helped me!” He shot Mikey’s other kneecap. The poor guard alternately sobbed and screamed in agony.

  “Please!” he pleaded between sobs. “It won’t happen again, I swear!”

  “You swear?” said Crack, in a suddenly passive tone of voice. He raised his gun slowly and pointed it at Mikey’s head.

  “No!” screamed Mikey, holding his trembling hands in front of his face. Crack straightened his arm, squinted down the gun barrel, and smiled as he took aim. The tentacles of the octopus coiled as he squeezed the trigger, firing directly into Mikey’s skull and killing him instantly.

  “You’re fucking right it won’t happen again,” he said, dropping his gun arm. “Jugs, Blackie,” he said, “clean up that mess.”

  A couple of men who had been loafing in the background came up and started to drag Mikey’s bullet-ridden body away. Crack strolled over to where Richard was being held. Richard was still in shock.

  “I went around to your place,” Crack said matter-of-factly, stuffing the gun in his belt and gazing into the distance as if nothing had happened. Richard was taken aback, remembering that someone had broken into his house and taken nothing.

  “Nobody was home. I heard you went off on holiday,” Crack continued, approaching closer and staring at Richard. “To Surrey or something.”

  “It wasn’t a holiday”, Richard snarled. “I went looking for Danny. What have you done with him?”

  “I don’t want to talk about that right now,” said Crack. “You went off to Surrey,” he continued, “but you didn’t take the dog, did you?”

  “What?”

  “I said,” answered Crack, bringing his face to within a few inches of Richard’s. “You went off, but you left the dog. What’s his name? Zonk? What the fuck kind of name is that?”

  “Are you insane!” said Richard. “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s simple,” answered Crack. His right hand shot out and wrapped around Richard’s throat, forcing his head back against the expansive chest of Chuckles. He grabbed Richard’s hair with his free hand and twisted until Richard thought his neck would snap.

  “WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO WITH THE FUCKING DOG!” Crack screamed. As if in answer to his question they were interrupted by a yelp echoing from the entrance of the warehouse. Crack loosened his grip and stared in the direction of the door. One of the men came in, dragging a struggling Zonk by the collar.

  “Look what I found hanging around outside the gate,” said the man holding Zonk.

  Richard stared over at Zonk. How did HE get here? He thought. He must have followed me.

  “Zoooonnnnkkkk,” said Crack in a syrupy voice. “Good doggy, nice doggy.” He strolled over and patted Zonk roughly on the head.

  What could he possibly want with Zonk? Richard thought. He’s completely lost it.

  “Well,” said Crack. “This really is my lucky day – first you, then the dog. I can’t wait to see what happens next.” Zonk tried to run to Richard but the handler held him back. Finally he sat quietly, panting with his usual benign expression.

  Crack sneered at Richard. “The kid never told you, did he.”

  “Told me what?”

  Crack turned to the thug who’d brought Zonk in. “Hammer, take the mutt outside. Don’t let him get away – you saw what happened to Mikey. You’ll envy Mikey if you lose that dog.”

  Zonk yelped as Hammer dragged him roughly from the room.

  “Keep within hearing distance,” called Crack as they left. “When I call for you, bring him back in here.”

  Crack disappeared through a back door of the warehouse and returned shortly with a small, soiled rag. He swaggered over and held it up to a bewildered Richard’s nose.

  “Smell that,” he said. Richard sniffed the rag. “Know what it is?”

  “It’s gasoline,” Richard answered.

  “Very good,” said Crack. “I can see you’ve been around. Congratulations.”

  Crack paused, held the rag up to his own nose and took a deep breath. A vacant expression swept over his face and his eyes rolled partially back in his head as his fingers explored his burn scar. The scent brought back a memory. A young teen pounding frantically through trash-laden streets, pursued by his enemies, slipping on wet garbage and falling face-first into the stinking debris in the gutter.

  Caught up by his pursuers and dragged to a back alley. Laughing and jeering as they punched and kicked him into semi-consciousness. At a snap of the fingers of their rat-faced leader, one of the goons fetching a jar half-full of something. Rat-boy twisting off the lid, smiling. The fumes wafting over… Rat-boy dousing his face and lighting a match. The unbearable pain, the stench of his own skin on fire. The echo of his screams amid the derisive laughter of his enemies.

  Rat-boy had paid dearly for that laughter. Even Crack had been surprised at the depth of violence he was capable of. Rat-boy had not died quickly or easily. As Crack reminisced, the stroking of his scar transformed into scratching, and the scratching intensified until his nails were red with his own blood.

  In a few seconds he snapped out of his trance as if it had never happened. “Now let’s think of a good place to hide this,” he said, and began wandering around the warehouse, as if searching for something. He finally stopped in front of a pile of junked equipment in a far corner. He took one last sniff of the rag and stuffed it into a space at the back of the pile.

  Satisfied with the placement, he returned and yelled out, “Okay, Hammer, bring the mutt back in here.”

  Once again Richard heard Zonk whining as the thug dragged him back into the room. Richard found the entire exercise incomprehensible. Either Crack was totally unhinged or there was something important he was missing.

  “Okay,” Crack said, approaching the henchman and Zonk. “Let him go.”

  Hammer let go of Zonk. The dog immediately headed for Richard, but Crack blocked his way and grabbed his collar. He patted the dog’s head as before.

  “Nice doggy,” he said. He looked at Richard. “Tell him to stay.”

  “Zonk – stay,” said Richard. Zonk sat and looked up at Crack.

  “That’s right, Zonky,” said Crack. “We’re just going to try a little experiment.”

  He stood, smiled down at Zonk, hesitated for a moment, and finally said, in a clear, distinct voice:

  “Zonk – ‘Eldorado’.”

  Richard’s jaw dropped open on hearing that magical word. A change came over Zonk, as if he were in a trance. He alternately jumped up and down and spun around in circles, sniffing the ground. He finally set off, following a path along the warehouse floor, as if he were tracking a scent. Within seconds he had located the rag behind the pile of debris. He stood exactly in front of the space where Crack had stuffed the rag and rapidly poked his nose in its direction.”

  “Well, I’l
l be fucked,” whispered Crack. “I never get tired of seeing that.”

  Richard was stunned. The words from Danny’s journal finally came together. A huge piece of the puzzle had fallen into place.

  “Zonk is Eldorado!” he said aloud, and shook his head in disbelief. Crack sneered at him.

  “What a laugh,” he said. “The kid told me, but he didn’t tell you.”

  Richard hung his head, ashamed.

  “He said the dog could sniff out gasoline ten blocks away,” said Crack, “even buried underground. Just say the magic word – ‘Eldorado’”. He shouted again, and he and the rest of the gang howled in laughter as Zonk repeated his routine.

  “The kid was onto something”, Crack said. Once again he grabbed Richard by the hair, his face inches away. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

  Richard said nothing.

  “He was holding out on me,” Crack continued, stepping back. “Nobody wants a vehicle unless they've got something going. Too bad he decided to do himself before we could find out what it was.”

  “What have you done with him,” said Richard.

  “I’ll tell you about your precious brother – there's not enough dredges in the city to find him now.”

  Richard’s intestines twisted into a knot, and bile moved into his throat. “What do you mean?” he whispered.

  “How plain can I make it?” Crack said. “You’re College man aren’t you? What’s the old saying – ‘he sleeps with the fishes’? No, wait, I’m mistaken – I don’t think there’s any fish left in that river.” He cast his gaze around and laughed, and the others joined in.

  “He was seventeen years old, for God's sake!”

  “Well, I guess you should've raised him with a little more street sense.”

  “You're right,” hissed Richard. “I should have prepared him for scum like you!”

  Crack shot a punch to Richard’s stomach that took his breath away. Richard collapsed to his knees.

  “You’re really starting to piss me off,” Crack said. “You sit there in your little office at ‘The College’ with your comfortable little house and your little garden and your privileged little lifestyle, spouting your little platitudes about how the rest of us should live.

  “Meanwhile there’s a million suckers out here scraping to stay alive. They don’t give a rat’s ass about your little life or the life of your brat little brother. They care about where their next meal is coming from, and where they can sleep tonight where they won’t get a shit-kicking or get their throat slit.

  I’m fucked if I’m going to be one of them. I’m going to be the one in control – the one calling the shots. If anybody’s going to be beating the shit out of anybody else, I’m going to be the one giving the beating, not the one taking it. And if anybody gets in my way, they’re dead. So fuck you and your dead brother.”

  “You filthy bastard!” Richard yelled. He struggled to break free of Chuckles’ grip, but the giant held him easily.

  Crack walked over to where Zonk continued to point at the gas-soaked rag. He retrieved the rag, grabbed Zonk roughly by the collar, and dragged the struggling dog back to where Richard stood.

  “I’ve got the dog now,” he said, sneering at Richard. “He'll take me where I want to go. I don’t need you or the kid.”

  He tossed the gasoline rag to Hammer, who caught it in one hand. The movement shook an ash from Hammer's lit cigarette. It landed on the rag, which immediately burst into flame. Hammer jumped back and dropped the flaming rag on the floor.

  To Richard’s shock, Crack reacted with pure terror at the sight of the flames. His features contorted hideously and his eyes bulged out of their sockets. He staggered backward, letting go of Zonk’s collar and raising his hands in front of his face. Hammer and the others stared at the spectacle. A couple of the thugs snickered in the background. Zonk yelped and took off, racing toward the back door of the warehouse.

  Crack finally awakened from his trance. "You stupid fuck!" He screamed at Hammer.

  “It's out! It's out!” Hammer yelled back, stamping on the flaming rag.

  Crack spotted Zonk. He tore after Zonk, screaming, “Get him, you morons – and don’t shoot him or I’ll have your balls!”

  Richard couldn’t help but smile. Zonk – go, boy, he thought. Get the Hell out of here! All was chaos as the gang members scrambled in every direction, sometimes crashing into each other, desperately chasing after the dog. Even the giant, Chuckles, let go of Richard to join in the chase.

  “He got outside,” someone yelled. “Shit!"

  Richard had been all but forgotten. He glanced to his right. The windowed room where he’d first hidden was only thirty feet away. That meant the hallway he’d passed through was immediately to its left. He staggered to his feet, took a deep breath, and sprinted for the entrance. He was within a few yards when a voice yelled: “He’s getting away!”

  He heard a gunshot as he dove into the opening and stumbled down the hallway, his heart pounding, running for his life. Retracing his path to the front door, suddenly he was outside, following his original route along the wall of the building. He heard another gunshot, and a pain ripped through his upper right arm. He checked with his left hand and found blood soaking through his shirt. Heavy footsteps thumped close behind him. Ahead, he could make out the chestnut tree he’d climbed down, and a clump of smaller trees a few yards beyond it.

  He glanced over his shoulder. Chuckles was puffing after him, but having trouble keeping up. Another pair of men appeared around the corner, much farther back. He hunted desperately for any hint of an escape route, but could see nothing. He reached what looked like a garage, and flew past the wall toward a gap at the back. He raced around the corner, hoping he’d spot a way out, but the alley ahead of him was a dead end.

  His only hope was the chain-link fence that ran alongside the alley and blocked its far end. The section at the end butted against the garage. Frantically, he scaled it and scrambled onto the garage roof. Chuckles stumbled around the corner, shouted something, and held up his gun. Richard heard a shot, but couldn’t tell whether he’d been hit. Chuckles ran for the fence, but the giant couldn’t haul his massive bulk up far enough to reach the roof.

  “Mansur,” Chuckles yelled. “Get over here!”

  Richard staggered along the rooftop. Something warm was running down his right arm. He began to feel faint. He jumped from the garage roof to the roof of the main building and saw the open street beyond. It was his only chance. He stumbled on, more and more lightheaded with every step.

  Finally, within a few yards of his goal, he started to black out. He lost his balance, stumbled, and plunged off the edge of the roof. A jolt of pain shot through his chest as he hit the ground. The pain woke him and he realized what had happened. He was lying in some tall grass between two buildings. His pursuers were yelling at each other:

  “He climbed up on the roof!” he recognized Chuckles’ voice.

  Richard heard someone climbing up the fence and onto the roof. He was weak from loss of blood, but knew his life depended on finding a hiding place. The building beside him had an open crawlspace below it. He dragged himself into the narrow gap, praying that they hadn’t seen him fall, and that he wouldn’t be visible from above.

  He heard footsteps directly overhead.

  “He’s not here,” said the man on the roof. “He must have jumped down to the street.”

  “Shit!” said Chuckles.

  “I’m going down to check,” yelled the man on the roof. “Go around and meet me out there.”

  Richard took off his shirt and used his left hand and his teeth to tear off a strip. He wrapped it tightly around his right arm to stop the bleeding.

  He heard Crack scream, “The dog got under the fence! Jugs! Marley! Get your bikes. Don’t come back until you find him!”

  As the shouting and whining of motorcycles faded into the distance Richard collapsed in the dirt, weak, exhausted, more and more lighthead
ed. His consciousness finally gave way. He collapsed and knew nothing more.

  He woke in a cold sweat, uncertain how much time had passed. Still in a daze, he peered into the darkness. In the distance a heavenly light shone so brilliantly it hurt his eyes, illuminating the earth below with a beautiful golden glow. Am I dead? He thought for a fleeting moment, and shook his head to clear away the fog.

  As his vision cleared he saw that there was a distinct vertical slit of light about fifty feet away. He felt his right shoulder. It was caked with dried blood and still burned with pain. He remembered what had happened, and realized he was still lying under the building where he had fallen. One by one he flexed his limbs. Incredibly, there was no major damage. He tried to roll over onto his stomach. One of his ribs screamed in agony.

  Bruised or maybe cracked, he thought, but hopefully not broken.

  Ignoring the pain, he crawled through the dirt toward the light. Something large scrambled over his back. He cringed, but didn’t dare cry out. In the dim glow of the slit he saw a huge rat scurry away into the gloom.

  After what seemed like an eternity of agonizing effort, he reached the source of the light. There was a gap of about a half inch between two warped walls of the building. Though the gap was small, by placing his head at the proper angle he could clearly see into the space above.

  He was peering out onto the same warehouse floor where he’d been held prisoner. Crack stood about forty feet away, leaning against his favourite overstuffed armchair and talking to one of his men. Richard couldn’t make out what they were saying. He cast around for another break in the wall, and found one about twenty feet closer to Crack’s position. He crawled slowly and painfully over to it. It was narrower than the first, but still provided a view, and was close enough that he could make out the conversation.

  “What are you doing here?” Crack said to someone out of Richard’s sight.

  Richard crawled around to get a look at the speaker. The dark-skinned gangster that had been standing behind Crack earlier had brought forward a thuggish man Richard didn’t recognize.

  “I’ve got some information you might be interested in,” said the man.