Vigilante Angels Trilogy

by Billy DeCarlo

  Tommy felt his anger grow and began talking to the screen. “Fucking morons. C’mon people—this guy’s a con artist. Use your brain. He won’t follow through on these promises to you. All he’s ever done is screw people over. Don’t be duped.” He took another large swig from the bottle.

  “Damn good thing this guy’s got a snowball’s chance in hell of making it through the next few primaries, Whitey. But if he ever did get elected, God help us all.”

  The effect of the booze, medication, and stress began to gnaw at his stomach as he watched. He turned the TV off and went to the kitchen to prepare his dinner. He opened a can of stew and dumped it into a small pot, which was still crusted with the remnants of his lunch.

  He took his wine and meal outside to a rustic, weather-worn picnic table that sat in a small clearing behind the house. Whitey followed and took his position beneath the table at his master’s feet. “Sorry guy, you’re not going to want any of this crap,” Tommy said to him. “Yours is probably better. Maybe we should both eat that and save money.”

  As he sat at the table eating, his mind flashed back to dinners at his own kitchen table a long time ago when Bobby was small. They’d recap their day, tease each other, and look forward with excitement to what they would watch on television together that night after the boy’s homework was done. Those were happy times, and revisiting them made him morose. I can’t ever go back home. Bobby’s dead. Margie was unfaithful. It won’t ever be the same.

  He finished his meal and pulled a joint and lighter from his shirt pocket. As he smoked it and the drug’s effects mixed with the wine, he enjoyed the quiet surroundings. He stood and surveyed the area, pleased that there were no other cabins visible through the dense vegetation and mangroves along the nearby channel. No neighbors and plenty of escape routes, perfect. His thoughts turned to the events that had brought him to this place.

  The news footage of the black protester being treated so disrespectfully still bothered him. His friendship with Moses had helped him understand what it really meant to be in the minority in a country full of people who hated anyone who was different from themselves. Not one of them considers for a moment what it would be like to be hated by others your entire life.

  He felt a wave of sadness and remorse as he recalled how Moses had died while assassinating the pedophile priest they’d stalked together. You went rogue and left me behind to save me, Mos. I’m still a little mad, but at least you denied cancer the chance to take you out. I miss you, buddy.

  He reached beneath his shirt and cradled the St. Michael medallion that Moses had given him. The archangel, vigilante, warrior.

  The disappointment of not helping Moses execute the priest was erased by the thrill he felt at the memory of looking down at the remaining pulp of Carson’s disfigured body and taunting him as his life slipped away.

  But I promised to spend my last days for the common good, to make the world a better place, and that one was only personal.

  That brought him back to the images and words of Brand’s campaign. The man stood for everything Tommy hated, and reminded him too much of everything that he used to hate about himself. The thought of what would happen to so many unfortunate people if the man ever got elected terrified him. I guess I won’t have to worry about it though; I’ll be gone.

  Whitey rose and put his front paws on Tommy’s knees, looking at him expectantly. Tommy picked the dog up and placed him on his lap. Whitey rolled over, and Tommy rubbed his stomach. “Okay, pal. Let’s grab some cash and see if we can figure out how to get to that farmer’s market I saw from the taxi on the way in.”

  Placing the dog on the ground, he shuffled slowly back into the bungalow. He pulled the blinds in the bedroom and pushed the nightstand aside. Using his pocketknife, he pried up two floorboards and retrieved a few twenty-dollar bills from one of the wrapped stacks below.

  After putting everything back the way it was, he grabbed his knotted, gnarled walking stick from the door handle and left the cabin with Whitey, taking care to lock the door behind him.

  3 Tara

  Tara hummed and swayed to the music flowing from the overhead speakers as she arranged colorful organic vegetables into woven wooden baskets. Her long, gauzy tie-dyed dress felt good as it grazed her legs.

  “How’re you doing down there, Ol’ Jerry?” She crouched to ruffle the Irish Setter’s graying hair.

  She glanced up at the canopy over her stall in the farmer’s market, thankful for its protection from the heat. She stopped to pull her gray hair back into a ponytail, then moved to a basin to wash her hands and went back to her task.

  Her favorite song came on, and she began to sing along with it softly. “Sugar Magnolia...”

  Movement through the shimmering heat far down the road caught her eye, and she stopped to see what it was. It had been a slow day, as it always was when it was abnormally hot. She focused and saw a white-bearded man with a walking stick making his way toward the market. A small white dog kept pace by his side. He marched toward the market with a slow, determined gait.

  She went back to her sorting and singing, lost in thought until a voice startled her.

  “Hello,” the man said. “Where’s the frozen food at? I think I want to climb into the freezer.”

  She turned to face him and smiled. “It’s a tough walk in this heat, no matter how far. Come on in here, under the shade.”

  She went to the wash basin and poured water into a bowl for his dog, then to the prep table. She cut a large slice of dark red watermelon and handed it to the man. “This’ll help. No frozen food here, only good stuff. I’m Tara.”

  The man took the melon with one hand and shook her offered hand with the other. “Tommy. Tommy B...” He stopped for a moment and shook his head. “Just Tommy.”

  She smiled at him. “Then I’m Just Tara. Good enough. What can I do for you, Just Tommy?”

  “I’m new here. Just retired. When I noticed that my collection of memorial cards was growing, I figured why not move to paradise before I get my own?

  “Anyway, I need to stock up on a few things—some grub for Whitey and me here, to start with. Got any cans of dogfood?”

  Tara measured him before responding, taking note of the sweat rolling down his face and his soaked white V-neck t-shirt. He was still breathing hard, though trying to hide it, and smelled faintly of alcohol. Her intuition signaled a kind soul, but someone with secrets and the weight of the world on his shoulders. A tough exterior belying a sensitive nature. Another one who’s come here to run from the world. I wonder how long this one will last.

  She pulled a folding chair for him from against the wall and set it up, then grabbed an ice-cold bottle of water from her cooler and handed it to him.

  “Tell you what, Just Tommy. I could use some company. How about taking a break and hanging out for a while? Those two are getting acquainted.” She nodded toward the two dogs. Whitey was circling and sniffing Ol’ Jerry, who lay still on the floor, disinterested.

  “Ol’ Jerry here is getting on in years, not much energy these days,” she continued.

  Tommy took the seat. “That makes two of us,” he said. “Thank you, Tara. I can’t stay long, though. I just need to stock up on some things.”

  “Listen, Just Tommy. You can probably tell I’m an old hippie, if the Grateful Dead tunes and tie-dye weren’t your first clues. Our bodies are our temples, and the same goes for our beloved companions. Can I get you something much better than that garbage they put in cans for your little friend here?”

  “Whitey,” Tommy reminded her. “Yeah, sure.”

  “I make it myself. All natural.” She pulled a container from a shelf and scooped out a spoonful of its contents, offering it to Whitey, who eagerly devoured it. “Looks like Whitey’s a fan,” she said.

  “Works for me. I’ll take enough for both of us,” Tommy said. “Probably better than the crap I’ve been eating.”

  Tara laughed. “I bet it is. I can fix that too, though. Eve
rything here is organic. What kinds of fruits and veggies do you like, Just Tommy?”

  Tommy looked around. “About everything. I’m not too picky, but I’m not much of a cook. I’m a real sick guy, so it doesn’t much matter what I put into my body now. It’s about run out its usefulness.”

  Tara detected a slight slur in his speech and wondered if it was from the illness or the alcohol. She took a seat next to him and placed her hand on his knee. “Tommy, I’m a big believer that no matter what your challenges are, they can be helped significantly with the right frame of mind and what you put into your body. You’re not the first person to lose hope and come here to get away from everyone and everything.”

  Tommy shifted uncomfortably. “How do you know that about me?”

  “I’m good at reading people. I see the goodness in you, and the sadness. This part of the key isn’t exactly a tourist area. It’s mainly people like us, who want to stay off the grid as much as possible. Fishermen, loners, and locals.”

  “Sounds like my kind of place,” Tommy said.

  “Alright then, Just Tommy. How about I box you up a week’s worth of stuff that you can easily make into meals? It’ll be on the house—we’ll call it a sample pack. If you like it, I’ll see you every week for refills. Then I’ll have you on the hook and jack the price way up. What do you like?”

  Tommy considered the offer. “I’m a big pasta guy...”

  “Right on, then. I happen to have some fresh homemade pasta and some jars of marinade made from local tomatoes and spices. It’ll be easy for you to make. I’ll fix you right up. All my stuff is from the local farms and restaurants.”

  She moved around her stall, filling a cardboard box with provisions, again singing along to her music.

  “You sing nice, Tara,” he said. “I need two more things. I’d like some fresh fish to cook up, and where’s the liquor store around here?”

  She stopped and stood in front of him, hands on hips. Her voice took on a motherly tone. “Just Tommy. Didn’t you hear my lecture about our bodies as a temple? A drunk temple doesn’t do a man much good. It’s poison.”

  “Yeah, well,” Tommy said. “Maybe you didn’t hear me when I said I was on a short runway. Nothing matters much anymore for me, anyway.”

  She sensed that she’d crossed a line and angered him. “To each his own; live and let live. If you decide you want to change that, let me know. In another lifetime I was a nurse, and I did a lot of work helping folks with substance problems. If that’s your choice, I respect it.”

  She watched him as he seemed to be considering her offer. It’s got him, but he wants to change.

  “Thanks. I’ll keep it in mind. Funny thing—I didn’t touch the stuff for a long time, until just lately. At first, it helped kill a lot of pain. Now it’s turning into the pain. Like it was back when I had a problem with it.”

  She was happy that he was opening up to her. That was a good first step. “That’s what it does. It’s evil. I’m here for you if you need me, Tommy. I also lead a tai chi group on the beach a few times a week. At sunrise, if you want to join us.”

  “I’m trying to keep a low profile, but I’ll think about it. I know a guy who has a black belt.”

  She laughed. “No, not like that. Tai chi doesn’t have belts. It started as a martial art, but today it’s used as a very slow-motion, spiritual form of exercise. It’s very popular with old farts like us.”

  Tommy looked up at her, finally with a hint of playfulness on his face. “Hey. Speak for yourself. I’m only forty, it’s just been a rough forty years.”

  They laughed together. “And listen,” Tara said. “If it helps you get away from that poison, I have some other, more natural ways to relax and catch a nice buzz.”

  “Now that I’ll take you up on. My stash is going to run out at some point, and I like it a lot more than the booze.”

  She brought the full box of provisions and placed it on a table in front of him. “To answer your earlier question, my friend Micco has a fish stall a few booths down. He’s a fisherman, so it’s all his own fresh-caught stuff. Go visit him, then come back for the box. I’ll keep it chilled for you. I’m not helping you with the other problem though, buddy.”

  “Geez. A real hard-ass teetotaler hippie. Only I could run into someone like that,” Tommy said, rising. “Alright. I’ll be back shortly, Tara.”

  4 Fishmonger

  Tommy made his way past the stalls of the farmer’s market with Whitey padding along faithfully by his side. He passed a stall selling Asian specialties and peeked inside. The mystical appearance of the bottled and packaged goods on the shelves and the dank, exotic smell of incense and herbs brought him back to the old Korean shop he’d visited with Sensei Molletier. The stall was empty of patrons, and an old woman wearing a large conical hat sat in the rear, under the shade of its canopy. He entered and approached her.

  “Excuse me, mama-san. Do you speak English?” he asked.

  She looked at him with contempt. “This is America, why the hell wouldn’t I speak English?” she asked.

  Tommy was embarrassed for his gaffe. “I’m sorry...” he started to say.

  “Vietnam vet, right?” she asked. “You’re not in Saigon anymore, G.I.”

  “Yeah, okay. Got it. I’m sorry, again. Excuse me, but can I ask where you’re from?” Tommy asked.

  “Manhattan,” she said, looking at him defiantly.

  “No, I mean, like what country,” he tried again.

  “United States. Manhattan’s in New York City.”

  Tommy paused, exasperated. She’s good. And I’m an idiot. “Okay, point taken. Let me try again. I’m sorry, ma’am. Old habits die hard, but I assure you I don’t mean to insult you. I’m just an old man, and I’m not thinking right. I’m sick, and the damn sun has fried my brain. I’ll try again. Can you tell me what your heritage is?”

  She leaned back, satisfied. “That’s better. My people are from Korea.”

  “Oh, good,” Tommy said. He reached into a pocket of his cargo shorts and pulled out a small black vial. “Can you tell me what this says?”

  She took the vial from him and examined it. “It’ll cost you ten dollars for translation service,” she said.

  “Oh, for chrissakes, lady,” Tommy said, fishing in his rear pocket for his wallet.

  “Take it easy, GI Joe. Just fucking with you. It says, ‘Death with Dignity.’ Where did you get that? It’s poison. Something that was given to our spies in the Korean War in case they were captured. Very deadly. You better handle it carefully.”

  “Wow. A friend gave it to me. I mean...I found it.”

  She looked at him doubtfully, then reached behind her to a shelf and pulled a straw farmer’s hat similar to her own from a stack. “Here, wear this before you do fry whatever brains you have left. Ten bucks.”

  Tommy took it and examined it. He liked that it could help shield his appearance. “Not a bad idea. Deal.” He thought for a moment, examining the shop wares. “So...you got any rice wine?”

  She paused before responding. “This ain’t a damn liquor store. Need a license for that kind of thing.” She eyed him, then said after an uncomfortable pause, “Wait here.”

  She got up and went into a curtained-off back area of the stall, returning after a few minutes with a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag. She held it, looking at him. “Hold on. You a cop? You look like a cop.”

  The question took Tommy by surprise. What the hell, is everyone around here psychic? He looked at the bottle, and it called to him. He felt the urge, the hunger for a drink. It upset him, and he felt weak and hated himself for wanting it. He fought to just walk away, but he couldn’t. The force of it had grown and was now stronger than his will. “No. I’m not a cop. I’m just a sick old drunk. I came here to die.”

  Now she now appeared sympathetic and held the bottle out. “I can’t sell it to you. No license. It’s a gift.”

  Tommy smiled at her gratefully. “Thanks. Thank you so much.�
� He took it and shoved it into the larger pocket on the side of his pants. I guess it was all an act. What a nice lady.

  “The hat’s twenty bucks now,” she said, crossing her arms.

  “Oh, Jesus.” Tommy pulled his wallet out and paid her. “Well, thanks,” he said. He placed the hat on his head and made his way out of the store with Whitey following.

  “Get well soon, papa-san,” she called out after him.

  He made his way past more stalls, feeling a little foolish wearing the conical hat, but thankful for its relief from the hot sun. He smelled the fish as he approached a row of refrigerated display cases. Cleaned fish fillets were lined up neatly on beds of ice. Whitey sniffed excitedly and put his front paws up on the displays, trying desperately to see the contents.

  A man emerged from the shade of the back of the stall. Tommy took note of his high cheekbones, and jet-black hair pulled into a neat ponytail. He wore a clean white smock and a bone choker made of polished conch and coral which contrasted against his dark, red-hued skin.

  “Can I help you, sir?” the man asked Tommy.

  “Yeah, what’s the catch of the day?”

  “Grouper, yellowtail snapper, and blackfin tuna. All caught this morning.”

  “I’ll take some of the tuna. Two fillets, please.”

  Tommy watched as the man expertly wrapped the fish in paper. “I don’t mean to offend, but are you some kind of Indian?” Tommy asked the man hesitantly. “I mean, Native American.”

  “No offense. I’m proud of my heritage. I’m Seminole. My ancestors are from here, but there aren’t many of us left in the area. The government packed most of us up and shipped us to a reservation in Oklahoma after the Seminole wars in the mid-1800s. My name’s Holata Micco. It means ‘Alligator Chief.’ I’m named after the leader of the third Seminole wars. People just call me Micco, though.”

  He placed the wrapped fish in a small insulated box with ice and handed it to Tommy.

  “I’m Tommy. Tara sent me. She’s a real nice lady,” Tommy said as he paid and shook the man’s hand.