Fixed Fight (Mike Chance series Book 2)

by E. Ivan Infante

  “You gotta plan?” Benny didn’t sound like he wanted to know.

  “Yeah, I gotta plan. You wanna hear it?”

  “Hell no.” Benny shook his head. That was all he could do with Mike. Shake his head and keep his mouth shut.

  Benny turned and walked out of the hotel. Mike watched him go, then turned and climbed the rest of the stairs. As he approached his room, he slowed and stepped lightly. A few boards creaked and he stopped. After a second of silence, he took a few more steps and reached the door. He pressed his ear against the wood and heard nothing, so he slipped his key in the lock and went inside. No one was waiting for him.

  Mike strolled in and take a look through the window at the hotel across the way. In a brightly lit room on the floor below him, he could see a man trying on white shirts in front of a mirror. The man had on a white sleeveless tee shirt and he smoked incessantly as he tried a variety of white silk dress shirts.

  Mike lit a cigarette and sat down and watched. The guy in the next room kept up his fashion show for a while, but the rest of the hotel’s windows stayed dark. There wasn’t a woman anywhere.

  After a while, Mike lost interest in the man and his silk shirts and started taking deeper drags on his smoke with one eye on his bed. When the cigarette felt stale, he stubbed it out in the ashtray and stumbled over to sleep. He was out for the rest of the day – a good ten hours. He woke up at twilight.

  His body ached in every place he had taken a punch the night before and he had taken punches all over. With difficulty he rolled himself to a sitting position on the side of the bed, but had to stop and catch his afterward breath because of the pain. When he recovered, he took a drink of water from a dirty glass on the bedside table. The Red 9 was next to the glass and Mike picked it up and checked it. The gun felt good in his hand.

  Mike struggled to push himself up and off the bed and walked over with small steps to the wash basin. He stripped off his shirt and checked himself in the mirror. He had large bruises on his rib cage and on the side of his face. He winced when he touched them and then smiled. The fight would be believable all right. Jersey Jimmy Jones was going to do fine. The success of the con was on Mike now. He had to make sure the Judge did not interrupt them. If Mike could do that, the grift would almost certainly succeed.

  Mike waited a few more hours until sundown, then snuck out of the side exit of the hotel. He wore dark grey overalls and had a jockey cap pulled down low over his eyes. He made his way through the back alleys to a trolley stop a few blocks from the hotel. He stayed in the shadows until it arrived.

  When he boarded, there were no other passengers. He rode the empty trolley all the way to South Los Angeles. When it stopped in a deserted industrial strip, Mike got off. He walked along a chain link fence papered with flyers that hailed the arrival of a new airplane factory. The building looked solid and impressive, even though it remained unfinished.

  A little past the factory, Mike came upon an isolated gas station and garage. He checked up and down the street and the coast was clear so he jogged around to the back. The rear door was locked. But it had a transom window on top of it, so Mike pulled an empty barrel up to the door and climbed on top of it and tried to open it. It was locked too, but the glass was loose in the frame. Mike tried to slide the whole piece out, but he couldn’t manage it. Instead, he took off his shirt, wrapped it around his hand, and broke the glass with his fist.

  Mike listened as the glass tinkled down to the floor inside. Nothing reacted to the commotion. Mike brushed the frame clear of glass, then climbed through the window and lowered himself down. He didn’t manage it well. He got clumsy and barely controlled his fall. He lay on the floor on his back for a second and looked around.

  It wasn’t very dark. The front wall had large windows and the streetlights shone in and Mike got a good look at nothing interesting. There were a couple of desks on his right. On his left, there was a wall with windows looking into the garage. He got up and headed for the cash register at the front of the office, but it was empty. He looked around some more and found a screwdriver and went back to the desks and attacked them. He forced the flimsy locks on the drawers and tore them open. He found nothing except another larger screwdriver. He picked that up and attacked the filing cabinet that stood against the wall between the desks. That’s where they kept the cash box. He pried it open and jammed its contents into his pockets: two hundred and twelve dollars.

  When he was done, Mike made his way to the garage. On his way, he passed a work counter and grabbed a sack of rags that lay on top of it. In a bucket under the counter, he found oily used rags. He took those by the handful and shoved them into the sack. He tried the door to the garage, but it was locked. Mike kicked it open easily and stepped inside onto the concrete floor. A voice came out of the darkness and met him.

  “Stop or I’ll shoot.” It sounded like a kid.

  The lights came on, but Mike didn’t react. He stayed still and followed instructions. In the center of the garage, a boy of about fifteen stood with one hand on a light cord and the other on a shotgun. His finger looked itchy on the trigger. Behind the boy, two cars were parked in the bays: a black Chrysler Airstream and a grey Ford Tudor. The back door of the grey Ford was open and Mike could see a blanket and a bundle inside. The kid had probably been sleeping in the backseat when Mike broke in and woke him up.

  The shotgun was shaky in the kid’s hand and his eyes darted from Mike’s eyes to the screwdriver in his hand. Mike didn’t flinch. He stared down the kid.

  “What’re you gonna do?” Mike asked.

  The kid hesitated before he answered, but when he talked he didn’t waver. He had made up his mind. “We should have some law.”

  “You think?” Mike stayed calm.

  “Yeah, I think, now why don’t you turn around, go in there where the phone is.” The kid motioned with the shotgun toward the doorway that led to the office.

  “In there?” Mike turned a little to look.

  “Yeah.”

  “No.” Mike said it flat.

  “Come on.” The kid stepped forward and gestured again with his weapon.

  This time Mike jumped forward, grabbed the shotgun, and jerked it away from the kid. Mike tried to hold onto it , but he lost his grip and the weapon sailed across the garage. It discharged when it hit the ground and the blast hit the Ford and blew out its windows.

  The kid turned to run, but he was too slow. Mike leaped forward, grabbed him by the shoulders, and spun him around. The kid mustered a right cross, but Mike took it on the chin easy. The kid swung again, but Mike blocked his punch and stepped forward and jabbed the screwdriver upward into the bottom of the kid’s chin.

  It pierced flesh easily and came up through the floor of the kid’s mouth. The kid flailed about and blood poured from his face. Mike lifted the kid up off the floor until bone snapped and flesh tore. The screwdriver made it’s way up into the kid’s brain and the youngster gurgled and thrashed about, knocking over oil cans and buckets.

  Mike held the kid aloft on the end of the screwdriver until he went limp, then he dropped him on the floor of the garage. Mike wiped the gore from his eyes and took a second to pull himself together. Then he crouched down next to the kid and checked his pockets. They were empty. A noise drew Mike’s attention to the Ford. A soft moan and the tinkle of glass kept it there.

  It was a girl. She crawled out of the backseat with blood all over her chest. The stray shotgun blast had gotten her good. She fell out of the car, but struggled to her raise herself to her knees. She looked up at Mike, then down at the gaping hole in her chest. Her face twisted in despair.

  Mike rushed forward and grabbed her head between the palms of his hands and snapped her neck. He put her out of her misery. He stumbled back right after and fell into a lean against the trunk of the Ford. He stayed there and listened. It was quiet except for his breathing.

  After a moment, he caught his breath and continued his search. Against the wall, he found sever
al ten gallon cans of gasoline and a large canvas tarp. There was more loose cash stashed in tool drawers here and there. In a small wooden box under an old desk in the corner, he found a Colt .25 vest pocket. It had two bullets in the magazine.

  He scoured the place top to bottom after that, hoping for more iron. He didn’t find it, so he gave up and turned his attention to the cars. He went to the Chrysler Airstream and rooted around until he found the keys in the glove box. He opened the trunk and loaded the gas cans and rags into it. He took one gas can and went back to the Fordor. He put the gas can down by the trunk and opened it. Then he dragged the kid’s bodies over and dumped them in. The gas came next. Then the match. It went up quick.

  Mike opened the garage door, hopped behind the wheel of the Chrysler, and backed out. He didn’t stop to close the garage door and the wind blew in and spread the flames all over. Before Mike got to the end of the block, the Ford exploded and the garage collapsed around it. Mike didn’t look back.

  He drove across town to the Polar Palace, chain smoking all the way. As he turned onto Van Ness Avenue and approached the skating rink, he hunched low behind the wheel. He drove past and got an eyeful. He didn’t see any trouble, so he circled the block to the where he had found the Judge’s limousine the night before. There it was under the same dim street light. Mike didn’t flinch. He drove past and circled the block, turning down an alley that emptied out behind the limousine.

  Mike parked and left the motor running and crept down the alley. He had the Red 9 shoved in his waistband and the screwdriver dangled at the end of his arm. At the end of the alley, he peeked around the corner at the limousine. He didn’t know how many people were in it, but he hoped the Judge was one of them. Mike stayed low and snuck closer.

  The driver dangle his arm out the window with a cigarette at the end of it. Mike knew right away the Judge wasn’t there. The Judge didn’t like the smell of smoke. The driver knew this and he stuck his head out of the limousine when he exhaled, trying to blow the smoke as far from the car as he could.

  Mike crept closer. When he got within ten feet, he crouched and waited. The next time the driver popped out to exhale, Mike was there. He grabbed the driver’s hair and pulled him out the window and stabbed him with the screwdriver. It went into the man’s ear until hit bone. The driver went into convulsions.

  Mike shoved the screwdriver further in until there was a loud pop and something gave and the man stopped moving. Mike left the screwdriver in the man’s head, but pushed him back into the car and behind the wheel. It looked like nothing had happened. The driver’s hand even remained on the windowsill with his smoke smoldering between his limp fingers.

  Mike walked back to his car and drove out of the alley and around again to the Polar Palace. He circled it one more time, then parked behind it, leaving the motor running. He went to the trunk and got the oily rags and the gas cans and carried them to the back door. The alley was full of discarded cardboard and wood-slat boxes and Mike piled this detritus against the back wall.

  When he was done, he emptied the gas cans onto the pile. He saved one can for last and poured it into the bag of rags, soaking them. When he was done, Mike wiped his hands on his shirt and headed for the back door. It was locked so he looked around until he found a loose piece of slat wood. He picked it up and wedged it between the door and the jam. Before he could try and force the door, it opened on its own. Roger stood there so surprised that the cigarette almost fell from his lips.

  “What are you up to?” Roger mustered a nervous smile. “It smells like gas.”

  “Take a hike.” Mike answered.

  Roger knew the score. He didn’t hesitate. He handed Mike his keys and took off down the alley. Mike closed the door and returned to the gas soaked debris that he had stacked against the building. He dropped match after match into the pile until the flame caught and spread. When it licked up the walls to a height taller than himself, Mike went inside with the bag of gas soaked rags.

  He stood by the back wall and gave the place the once over. He saw the Judge right away. The old man and a coterie of four thugs skated around the rink en masse. Except for one bright boy, who was a particularly good skater, he led the way plowing the slow-movers out of the way. Only the little children had the guts to protest, but a smile from the Judge shut their mouths.

  Mike got to work. He walked along the back wall dropping rags every few feet. When he had dumped the last of them, he turned and walked back the way he came. This time, he dropped matches as he went. By the time he got back to where he started, the rags had caught fire and black inky smoke edged up the walls. Panic and confusion erupted among the skaters. Soon tendrils of flame billowed up for all to see. The hysteria crescendoed and Mike stepped outside. He locked the door behind him.

  Outside, he sprinted down the alley and around the side of the building. As he got close to the front, he could hear the screams. At the corner of the building, Mike stopped and peered around the edge. People were streaming out. The Polar Palace employees failed to keep order and the people, many stumbling about in skates, shoved each other mercilessly in their rush to escape. Those that fell were gashed by the skates of those tripped over them. Piles of bleeding bodies intertwined on the ground.

  Mike fought his way into the crowd and made his way toward the entrance. It was tough going but, when he spotted the Judge, he surged forward shoving everyone aside. The Judge didn’t see him. The old man was surrounded by gunmen wielding their pistols like clubs and sending people sprawling. Mike ducked down a little as the old man and his entourage plowed past him. Mike slipped into their wake and drew the Red 9.

  When the Judge and his thugs separated themselves from the crowd, Mike stepped into the open behind them. The Judge looked back on instinct and locked eyes with Mike. A glimmer of recognition crossed the old man’s face and his face twisted into rage. Mike fired. The Red 9 held ten shots. The first two hit the Judge for sure. The rest went into his men as they closed ranks around him.

  Mike backed away after he emptied the clip. He grabbed the first body that came within reach: a small naval cadet in uniform. Mike shoved the cadet toward the Judge’s shooters and the bullets stood the main straight up and shot his arm off at the elbow. Mike ducked into the crowd. The gunfire accelerated the chaos.

  Mike hid behind the civilians and moved with them to stay in cover. The gunmen kept shooting and dropping bodies and some skaters ran back inside the Polar Palace. They died there when the fire exploded through the roof and brought the building down. The sound of falling beams punctuated the gunfire.

  Mike reloaded and stayed in the mob. The gunmen had lost sight of him, but kept firing. Mike saw the Judge a few yards in front of him and he took aim. Before he could fire, the crowd surged and pushed Mike away from the old man. Mike struggled to pursue his target. When Mike broke out of the obstacle course of other people, he sprinted to where the Judge’s limousine was parked. He rounded the corner in time to catch Cowboy Hat and the Judge limping toward their car.

  “Hey!” Mike wanted them to know he was coming.

  The Judge and Cowboy Hat turned into the bullets. Mike shot Cowboy Hat once and the big fella went down. The Judge didn’t turn and run. He pulled a long knife from his sleeve and charged.

  Mike stepped back. He wanted to talk to the old man. He wanted to say his piece before it was over. The old man wasn’t going to give Mike that chance. The old man rushed forward and slashed wildly with the blade. Mike side-stepped the attack and shot the Judge in the side of the face. The old man dropped like a stone and that was that.

  Mike stood over the body for a second, then kneeled down and checked the old man’s pockets just like he was anyone else. He found five hundred dollars and a watch worth taking. Mike finished with the Judge and got up to search Cowboy Hat, but the big fellow was gone.

  Mike took a look around for him, but people milled around now and sirens were getting close. Mike gave up and went back to his car. He got in and circled
the block and went back to the rink. The Polar Palace fire risen higher than the surrounding buildings and the wind had begun to spread it. There were lots of sirens closing in and driving Mike crazy. His head ached and got clouded. He kept seeing the Judge die in front of him over and over, dropping to the ground like a bag of trash.

  Mike got in the Chrysler and drove away. He didn’t stop until he got to the grocery store under the gym. It was late, but the lights upstairs were still on. The grocery was open too.

  Mike parked across the street and got out of the car. He took out the knife he had taken off the Judge and jogged to the back door of the grocery. When he got there, he jimmied it open with the blade and slipped inside. The place was dark and quiet. The only noise was the sound of the gym coming through the ceiling above him. Mike crept toward the office in the back. He could see Lombardi sitting at the desk with his back to him.

  Mike turned away and went looking for a bathroom. He found one and went in and stripped down to his shorts. He folded his clothes neatly and left them on a shelf, then snuck back out toward the office. He crept up behind Lombardi again. The fat grocer really was oblivious. The half-bottle of whiskey on the desk in front of him was probably the reason.

  “Hey.” Mike spoke softly from only inches away. The knife was out and ready.

  Lombardi spun around and his eyes went wide. He saw Mike and the knife and leapt for a desk drawer. Mike moved quicker. He slammed the drawer on the man’s hand and it got jammed in the slider. Lombardi was stuck.

  Mike stepped behind him and grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled his head back and slid the knife across his throat. The blade left a deep cut and exposed the windpipe. There was a strange wheeze of air coming out and blood poured all over. Lombardi flopped around a bit as he bled to death. Mike watched and then walked back to the bathroom, cleaned himself up, and got dressed again. It was the best he had felt in a very long time.