Vigilante Angels Trilogy

by Billy DeCarlo

  “You go,” Margie said as they reached the front.

  Tommy knelt at the altar of his friend and looked down on his tortured body. There were mementos in the casket—folded, handwritten notes, a few small pictures, and a New York Rangers cap. Tommy reached out and touched the waxen hands, folded together to hold rosary beads, and spoke softly as his tears began to flow.

  “I’m sorry, Mos. I’m so sorry. I never should’ve gotten you mixed up in this crazy scheme. I should’ve gone it alone. You were my best friend, and you died because of me, like Paulie. You made me better, brother. I’ll never forget you.”

  He reached into his jacket pocket, withdrew a small astronaut figurine, and placed it alongside his friend. He said a half-hearted prayer—for Moses’ sake more than out of any hope it would make a difference—wiped his face with a handkerchief from his breast pocket, and stood. He looked Moses over again and moved aside to let Margie and Bobby have their turn. He walked up the aisle to accusatory stares from Moses’ silent family members and friends.

  He chose a seat in the back of the room, and his family joined him after paying their respects. Someone squeezed his shoulder, and he turned to see Carmen and Beulah walk past, down the aisle. They nodded in his direction.

  He watched as they stood over Moses and then knelt together. They both touched him lovingly and said their prayers with sincerity. They rose and walked up the aisle, sitting in the row in front of Tommy and his family. Tommy rose to kiss them on the cheek and whisper introductions to his family.

  “I’m so sorry, Tommy,” Carmen said.

  “Yeah,” was all he could manage, fighting back tears.

  “Your husband is a good man,” she said to Margie. “And he talks about you all the time,” she added to Bobby.

  “That’s a shocker,” Bobby replied.

  “How you feeling, Tommy?” Beulah asked.

  “Not so well. I’m a wreck, especially with all of this. I miss him. I need him.”

  She reached back and squeezed his hand. “We miss you, Tommy. Stop in and say hello to everyone sometime.”

  “Yeah, I will,” he lied.

  Eddie Silver and his son Saul entered and made their way down the row to sit next to Tommy. “Hey, how you doing?” Eddie asked.

  “I’m good, Eddie.” The man looked twenty years older, the chemo having ravaged him since they last met.

  Saul unfolded a paper and showed it to Tommy. “I drawed this, for Mr. Moses.”

  Tommy took the page. It was a crayon drawing of a black superhero, in full cape and with an ‘M’ emblazoned on its chest. Beneath it, in childish scrawl, it said “Moses Tayler, Super Hero.”

  “It’s beautiful, kid,” Tommy said as he folded it and handed it back, trying not to cry.

  Eddie leaned over to whisper into Tommy’s ear. “I hear the cops are all over this, trying to figure out if it was some kind of conspiracy or whatever. Just doesn’t seem to add up. We’re going up to see Moses. We’ll be right back.”

  He watched as the father and son knelt before Moses and paid their respects, large and small yarmulkes on their heads. He thought back with regret about his first interaction with the sick man. The boy placed his drawing beside Moses.

  As they retook their seats next to him, Tommy heard a droning sound outside and knew what would come next. Within a few minutes, Lukas and the rest of the Black Eagles entered the church. Their black leather vests and bright patches stood out in the drab room. Lukas nodded in Tommy’s direction before greeting and consoling the members of his family.

  The pastor entered and conducted a solemn service over the sounds of sniffling and crying. Tommy shifted in his seat and then excused himself. He found the restroom in the main hall connecting the visitation rooms and hurried through the door in time to kneel before the toilet and empty the contents of his stomach in a series of heaves. While fighting to breathe, he thought of Moses getting sick in his bathroom not long ago.

  As he was cleaning himself up, the door opened behind him, and he saw Lukas in the mirror. “Damn, white boy. This shit reeks in here. You okay?”

  “Not really. Got a bug or something, I guess.”

  Lukas stood at the urinal and relieved himself. “Listen. I sort of know what you two crazy bastards were doing. I know my uncle had a lot of regrets and wanted some kind of absolution.”

  “You use a lot of big words for a biker guy.”

  “What are you saying?” Lukas asked angrily.

  “Never mind. Forget it.”

  “Anyway, I think I’m putting this all together, what you two were up to. I ain’t saying shit to nobody. But I get it. You plan anything else, let me know if I can help. Uncle Mos would want that. We got your back. That’s all I’m saying. I’m down with the concept.”

  Tommy’s paranoia grew, with the second hint in less than an hour that others might be putting things together. He nodded but didn’t respond, and left the bathroom.

  Disappointed the nausea hadn’t stopped, Tommy walked back into the room as the pastor was asking if anyone had anything to say for Moses. The occupants of the room all turned to look at him, and he froze. After a brief, awkward pause, they realized he wasn’t there to do so, and turned back to the pastor, who finished the service.

  As he and his group rose to leave, Lukas walked up to them.

  “We’re going to have some food over at the diner up the road. Got a private room, just some sandwiches, and what-not. You’re all welcome to stop by.”

  “Thanks,” Tommy said for the group, without committing. He wanted to get home to his couch and pretend none of this nightmare ever happened.

  21 The Suspect

  Tommy fidgeted in the ancient wooden swivel chair and looked across the desk at the man seated behind it. He and Roger, who was now Chief of Detectives Patterson, had come up through the force together. Tommy waited, picking at the ripped vinyl on the chair while Patterson leafed through a folder.

  Outside the office, he watched the usual buzz of cops coming in from their shifts, and those just getting to work and preparing to go out. He noticed familiar faces, and they all seemed to glance his way—the cop who’d encountered him parked outside of Murphy’s, the cop who’d responded to the ruckus at Wyla’s, Davis, the undercover cop who’d watched the door while they roughed up Buster Vela, and the cop who’d stopped them outside the church rectory. He started to wonder if it was all coincidence that they were coming and going as he sat in the office with Patterson, and he started to sweat and regret everything he’d become involved in. I couldn’t just be smart, retire quietly and fight this damn disease?

  Patterson tossed the folder on the desk, and it slid toward Tommy. Tommy reached for it, and the chief shook his head. “No. C’mon, Borata. You know better.” The chief pulled the folder back toward him.

  “Listen, Tommy. Seems straightforward enough to me. Taylor had a note on him. Said that someone close to him was a victim, and he wanted revenge since he was dying anyway. If it’s up to me, case closed.”

  “Makes sense to me,” Tommy said, beginning to rise.

  “Not so fast,” the chief said. Tommy plopped back down. “See that guy over there?” He gestured through the glass front of his office and out into the station-house floor area.

  Tommy saw a tall, burly cop with a flat-top and crisp uniform. Looks like me, a long time ago. Ambitious. Tough. The man turned and looked at Tommy casually, as if he’d sensed Tommy’s eyes on him. Good intuition.

  The chief interrupted Tommy’s inspection. “That’s Carson. Used to be an Olympic boxer. He came in as a transfer last year. He just made detective, and he’s ambitious; angling to take over for me when I retire. A real up-and-comer, everything by the book, no stone unturned. He’s been asking around about this. The talk around the station that you and Taylor were buddies has reached him, so he’s been asking about you.”

  “Well, thanks for sticking up for me,” Tommy said. “I’m sure they have a lot more to do around here than worry
about some conspiracy theory about a broke-down old cop with cancer.”

  Patterson rose. “Well, either way, Borata, keep a low profile and stay the hell out of trouble. Say hello to Margie and the boy.”

  As Tommy got up to shake his hand, a wave of nausea and pain hit him. He covered it to get out of there as quickly as possible. He left the chief’s office and headed down the hall toward the exit. His discomfort got worse with every step, and he eyed his goal, the red ‘Exit’ sign at the end of the hall. With every office door and cubicle he passed, he expected Carson to pop out and confront him.

  By the time he was halfway there, he was leaning against the wall for support. A few steps later he felt close to passing out. He reached the door to the men’s room and ducked inside.

  He went to the handicapped stall, as he always had when he’d worked there, for its extra space. He plopped down on the toilet to regain his composure, pressed with his fingers at the source of the pain, under his right rib cage, and he knew. Fuck. Liver. It’s back, and it’s spreading. He fussed with the toilet paper dispenser, his old nemesis. Finally, he found the end of the roll and yanked a long trail out to mop his sweat-drenched head.

  Someone entered, and he listened, waiting for the sound of piss against porcelain to stop. He fought the sharp pain in his abdomen enough to lean down to see the intruder’s shoes. Spit-shine. Must be that motherfucker. He waited while the sink ran, and then through an interminable washing and blow-drying of hands. Just dry them on your pants like everyone else, dick-head. This guy is patient.

  And then there was silence. He waited for the sound of the other man leaving. Nothing. Minutes passed. He pulled more toilet paper and then flushed the toilet for effect. The water drained, and the toilet refilled, and he still hadn’t heard the door open and close. He peeked again and saw the shoes.

  Finally, the door squeaked open and then slowly closed. He struggled to his feet. As he exited the stall, he saw the younger mirror image of himself leaning against the closed door.

  “Borata. You fell for the old fake door-closing trick. You’re losing your touch,” Carson said.

  “It’s Tommy. Call me Tommy. Listen, I’m in some pain...”

  He moved toward the door, but Carson didn’t budge.

  “I never saw someone take a crap without dropping trou,” Carson said.

  Tommy’s anger surpassed his fear of the man. “I’m sick. I ducked in here to puke and get a fucking break for a minute. It’s embarrassing, okay? What can I do for you, Carson?”

  “I’m going to be the new chief of detectives here. I know all about you, Borata. You have quite a reputation. And, apparently, a lot of friends here on the force. I’m still checking this whole thing with the priest’s murder and might have some questions. Maybe you can shed some light on that nigger Taylor, and his motive...”

  The pain left Tommy for a moment, as adrenaline surged and he pinned the man to the door with one strong hand around his throat.

  Carson smiled, in denial of his discomfort and inability to breathe.

  Tommy let go. “He was my friend, and a far better man than you, I’d bet. Do what you want with me, but don’t ever use that fucking word again, or say a bad thing about that man.”

  Carson stepped aside, and Tommy took his opportunity to leave. As he did, Carson said, “Don’t leave town, as they say. And get well soon.”

  “There ain’t no getting well from this, asshole. Pray you never have to know firsthand. In fact, I hope you do someday.”

  22 Conclusion

  He paused at the entrance to the unit. It was all the same, with one glaring exception. His pod was empty, but strangers sat in Moses’ seat and the others. He’d just started into the room when he felt a hand on his arm.

  “Hey, stranger. How’re you feeling?” It was Carmen.

  “Been better. Can’t say I’m happy to be back here, other than to see you and Beulah.”

  “Let’s get you fixed up and out of here.” She helped him over and began his saline drip. “We’ll get you juiced up while we wait for your cocktail to arrive.”

  He tried to smile, but the weight of being there, without Moses, was too much. Beulah yelled an enthusiastic greeting to him from across the unit, and he offered her a lighthearted wave in response.

  “How’s the gang, any of them still coming around?” he asked.

  She was hesitant. “Well, Helen is with Moses now. You saw Eddie at the funeral. He’s in hospice. He didn’t want to continue treatment, doc said it wouldn’t do much good.”

  He surveyed the others in his section while she worked on him. They seemed to him like inanimate, doomed vessels. He glared at the sleeping man in Moses’ seat. Asshole. He couldn’t pull himself away from his anger and sadness.

  What the fuck am I doing here?

  “C’mon, Tommy,” she said. He thought he’d said it to himself, but apparently, his lips had betrayed him. My whole body is betraying me. She took him by the chin and lifted his head up to look her in her eyes. “I need you to suck it up, Chief.”

  “Yeah, I’ll be okay. Just a brief pity party and I’ll be good to go, Nurse Ratched.”

  She laughed at the reference, still looking into his eyes, and it brought a smile to his face as well.

  He flipped on his pod’s TV. It was the news channel, again. He ignored the temptation to shut it down. He leaned back and closed his eyes, thinking about Moses. They had achieved their goal; they’d made the world a slightly better place, but he’d lost his friend. His feelings ran an endless loop between sad, conflicted, guilty, empty, and unfulfilled.

  I thought my wife and I were devoted to each other. I thought my son was going to be a man's man. I thought I'd have grandkids and a long retirement. Everything I thought was wrong. I’m under investigation. What the fuck do I have to live for.

  He let his mind drift back to the better days and better people in that same unit. He reminisced about his life, the good and the bad, while the newscasters droned on about all of the horrible things humans were busy doing to each other.

  “...financial adviser who has swindled his elderly clients...”

  “...charity organizer apparently paid himself a high salary and gave little to the cause...”

  “...the senator raided funds intended to do meaningful things in his community...”

  Carmen came back to check on him. “What do you say, tough guy? We can’t beat this damn thing if you aren’t on board.”

  He looked at her and scanned the room again. Moses isn’t here. Moses is dead. Moses is dead. Moses is dead. Dead like Paulie, and once again I did nothing, and I’m alive. Useless. He saw a man sitting in a pod in the unit on the far side, wired up to an infusion console, a patch over one eye. Sensei Molletier.

  “I guess I’ll try to stick around a while, Carmen,” he said.

  I have little time left and a lot of work to do. This time his lips didn’t give him away.

  The End

  Book II: The Cop

  Billy DeCarlo

  Wild Lake Press, Inc

  Hackettstown, NJ

  Copyright © 2017 by Billy DeCarlo

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  Billy DeCarlo/Wild Lake Press, Inc

  P.O. Box 7045

  Hackettstown, NJ 07840

  billydecarlo.com (blog, newsletter signup)

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Cover by Archangel Ink http://archangelink.com/

  Editing by WordVagabond https://wordvagabond.com/

  Vigilante Angels Book II: The Cop/Billy DeCarlo.—1st ed.

  ISBN 978-0-
9972196-6-1

  Sign up for the newsletter at billydecarlo.com to stay informed about progress and release dates for new books, audiobooks, and other news.

  To all who have suffered through disease or at the hands of others.

  They have sunk deep into corruption, as in the days of Gibeah. God will remember their wickedness and punish them for their sins.

  ― Hosea 9:9

  1 Carson

  BRAD CARSON ENJOYED his image in the full-length locker room mirror, adjusting his holster to the angle he preferred—low on his hip like an Old West gunslinger. Despite making detective, he often still preferred his crisply pressed black tactical uniform. He pulled his service semi-automatic from the holster and assumed a firing stance, aiming for his own forehead, then replaced it, laughing.

  “It’s a good day to bust some bad hombres. You ready to roll, Jackson?” he asked.

  “Locked and loaded. Let’s hit the Batmobile. I’m in the mood to crack some skulls. Off the record, of course.”

  The two men left the locker room and walked through the cacophony of the station-house.

  “Make way, losers,” Carson announced to the room. “Two bad-ass po-lice officers coming through. Feel free to admire us, but please don’t touch. It’s okay to take notes, take pictures. This is what you should strive to become.”

  He paused at a female officer’s desk, struck a pose, and said, “Yeah, I’m busy, but try again another time. I’m very booked up. Maybe I’ll squeeze you in—or squeeze into you if you catch my drift.”

  The woman lurched from her chair at him as if to attack, but stopped short.

  Carson didn’t flinch and laughed at her attempt to faze him.

  “Fuck you, Carson,” she said.