Vigilante Angels Trilogy

by Billy DeCarlo

  “How about you get that for us, pal,” the man called out to him.

  The seagulls had already moved in. Tommy made his way to the trash, scattering them in his wake. As he cleaned up the mess, a thought struck him. I’m not winded from that. I didn’t get winded walking here. Walking to the market wasn’t too bad, either. I feel stronger, somehow.

  He recalled Dr. Mason’s words about the trial drug he had stolen before his getaway. It also seems to rejuvenate some patients. He felt under his ribs for the liver pain, which had been so persistent that he’d learned to ignore it. Mason had confirmed that the cancer was swelling the organ.

  It’s gone. No pain. Holy shit. The stuff is working.

  Tommy was overjoyed at his revelation. Whitey seemed to understand as well. Tommy picked up a piece of driftwood and threw it. Whitey bounded to it and brought it back and they repeated the exercise until the dog was worn out.

  “Ha, can’t keep up with the old guy, huh, Whitey?” Tommy taunted.

  They began the walk off the beach, and Tommy whistled as Whitey trotted happily beside him. As he always did on their long walks through the channels and mangroves near the cabin, Tommy said, “Let’s go home, Whitey.” The dog took his cue and led the way to the bungalow.

  7 Lost in Place

  The aroma of the tuna grilling over charcoal was appealing to Tommy, but downright intoxicating to Whitey, who danced around the grill on his hind legs in anticipation. Tommy brushed on the olive oil that Tara had included in his provisions and sprinkled the fillet with spices. As it cooked, he tossed together a salad from the veggies she’d selected for him.

  He’d spent the day elated, continually probing around his body in amazement that the places which had always caused him pain no longer hurt. He and Whitey had hiked through the surrounding area that morning, and he was no more winded than a reasonably fit man in his sixties should be.

  For the first time in a very long time, he was genuinely happy.

  As he sat at the picnic table with his meal, he fed bites of tuna to the dog.

  “What do you think, Whitey? Maybe this is some kind of miracle drug. Maybe we have a longer runway than we thought. We can get a nice long stretch of time here. Maybe help out over at the farmer’s market. Maybe find a nice girl. I think I already know one.”

  The dog looked at him quizzically, waiting for the next morsel.

  “I’m tempted to cook the other fillet. Maybe for dinner, eh?”

  Whitey seemed to understand, rising up and putting his paws on Tommy’s knees.

  “What a day, huh kid? What a great day. Maybe we should celebrate.”

  He had made it that far into the day without drinking, feeling invigorated from the hike and thrilled at the thought that the cancer might be on the run. At the thought of a new lease on life, or perhaps at least a longer one. At the idea of love. Tara’s words and her profile, the chance of her, had kept his pangs of desire for the booze in check, but it was only mid-afternoon.

  “Let’s go inside and watch some TV,” he said. He picked up his plate, dish, and silverware and headed into the cabin, the white dog following obediently behind.

  After he’d cleaned the dishes, he turned on the television and settled onto the couch. Whitey leaped up and nestled against him. Tommy opened the stash box and prepared a joint, returning the vial he’d been carrying to its mate in the box.

  “I guess we won’t be needing you, Mr. Death with Dignity. Not for a while anyway. Good old Molletier, always looking out for me.” He remembered that Molletier had taken a share of the Forbaxatel. Damn, he’s probably getting better too. I hope it’s working for him like it is for me. Good for you, Sensei.

  “You know what, Whitey? We have one bottle of that 20/20 bum wine left. Might as well do away with it, and be done with the drinking for good, so it won’t tempt me later. We’re starting a new lease on life tomorrow. Today, we celebrate and then close the book on the drinking chapter.”

  The dog looked at him apprehensively, as if it understood that his logic was questionable.

  Tommy went to the bedroom and retrieved his gun case and the bottle from his under-floor hiding spot. The bottle felt good in his hand and smelled heavenly as he twisted off the cap and drank in the aroma.

  His body tingled down to his loins in anticipation of the first sip, and then he took it—a long one. It brought relief, but deep down he knew he should be feeling the opposite. Knowing it was the wrong decision, he made another promise that it would be the last time.

  As darkness fell, he smoked, drank, and watched a mindless sitcom while waiting for the evening news. He went through the robotic litany of cleaning his semi-automatic handgun as his thoughts again took him over.

  This is the kind of show that Bobby always watched. The thought of his son took him back again. I failed him. That poor kid. He was never free. Never able to be himself. I rejected him. Didn’t want to hear it. I should’ve protected him. He died, my partner on the beat died, and Moses died. I wasn’t there for any of them. What kind of person am I? Margie, too—she would never acknowledge Bobby’s homosexuality. No matter how hard he tried to open up to us.

  The thought of his estranged wife angered him. He realized that rather than his usual mellow high, the pot was bringing him down. He didn’t allow himself to blame the alcohol. The thoughts and memories served as fuel to that fire.

  Margie. The ‘good wife,’ I used to call her. Bullshit. Screwing my partner Paulie and then screwing my brother-in-law. A damn cheating drunk is all she was.

  His anger was growing, boiling up inside of him. Anger at the past, anger at himself for being weak. It was too late now, he’d already betrayed himself. He thought about Tara and felt that he had betrayed her too, by drinking. Another person I’ve let down. She’s too good for me. Just like Carmen.

  The thought caused him to attack the bottle harder. The news finally came on and moved immediately to coverage of the Republicans’ star candidate, Thomas Brand.

  “We have insider information on candidate Brand. Sources within the campaign have hinted at a drinking problem, saying that Brand has a weakness for good bourbon, and it often interferes with his demeanor and decision-making.”

  Great, he’s a fucking drunk on top of everything else. Just what we need, a drunk with the nuclear codes.

  A supporter from the Brand Brigade was being interviewed. The reporter asked what she thought about the latest revelation.

  “I think it’s just fine,” the woman said. “Who are we to talk? Most of us like to drink too. It just shows he’s a regular guy like us, despite being wealthy. A regular Joe. One of the people. That’s why we love him. He’s the kind of man I’d like to have a beer with.”

  Jesus Christ. That’s the same bullshit logic that got the last knucklehead elected. Look where that got us. Tommy tipped the bottle up to enjoy another slug but found it empty. He looked at it with surprise, then pointed the bottom up toward the ceiling again, shaking it over his open mouth to get the last drops. He forced his tongue into the neck as far as it would go, then angrily threw it across the room. He heard the glass break within the paper bag when it hit the wall, and decided to let it lay. Whitey yelped at the noise and jumped down to inspect the bottle, but Tommy called him back to his lap.

  Clips from Brand’s rally that day were being shown. Brand was spewing his typical vitriol against gays and immigrants to chants from a raucous crowd. “No-Ho-Mos. No-Ho-Mos.” Tommy watched the footage of the candidate, who wore a pleased smile. He picked up the reassembled weapon and pointed it at the man’s forehead. “I’m out here, motherfucker. Your worst nightmare. You better not push me too far, or...pow,” he said as the man continued his hateful rant. Tommy continued to sight down the barrel until tears began to cloud his vision. He closed his eyes, becoming angrier as he listened, until a sudden explosion jolted him.

  Without realizing it, he had placed his finger on the trigger, rather than in the standard safety position alongside it. It
was a measure that had been burned into him his entire career—gun safety 101. Whitey bolted from the couch, upset and crying, and ran to the bedroom to hide under the bed. Brand continued ranting on the television. And, to top it off, I fucking missed. Thankfully for the TV, I guess.

  He put the gun down and went to his dog. When he finally coaxed him out from beneath the bed, Whitey was shaking violently and looking at him with sad, confused eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Whitey. I’m so sorry,” he repeated, stroking the dog and holding him close to his chest. I’m on a roll. There’s yet another better soul that I’ve let down and fucked up. When the dog had calmed, he inspected the wall until he found the bullet hole and slug embedded in the pine. Hit a stud, at least.

  He peered out of the window and imagined sirens and flashing red-and-blue lights in the distance. The pot and booze fueled his paranoia. What if they do come?

  “We gotta go, Whitey! We gotta go, quick!” He jumped up, replaced the pot in his hiding place and stuffed the gun into his waistband, taking care to set the safety this time. He imagined the sirens coming closer, imagined light in the distance toward the road. He scooped up the dog, turned off the television and lights, and ran out into the woods surrounding his bungalow.

  He panicked, thinking about the police asking for his identification, possibly recognizing it was fake, finding out his real identity, and extraditing him back home, to spend the rest of his newly extended life in prison. Just like Moses was afraid of. He was right. A cop in jail is not a good thing.

  He splashed through the channel and stumbled through the mangroves and brush in the darkness, terrified. Branches whipped his face, and briars tore at his legs as he used both arms to shield the dog, unable to protect himself. He continued until he’d covered a considerable distance, ignoring the searing pain.

  Stopping to listen, he sat to catch his breath. The dog crouched at his feet, looking confused and scared. He leaned back against a tree, Whitey nestled on his gut and fell asleep.

  Sometime later, the dog shifted, startling him. It was still dark, and he reasoned that it couldn’t be that much later because his mind was still clouded from the effects of the pot and wine. Paranoia crept in again as he began to worry about the gators that he knew frequented the area. He stood and let Whitey down to relieve himself under his watch. He patted his firearm, still tucked into his waistband.

  He picked the dog up and attempted to find his way back. Trying to retrace his steps, he became confused. He tried to assess how long and how far he had run from the bungalow. They walked endlessly in the dark, amid strange noises. “We’re lost, Whitey. Completely fucking lost out here.”

  He was hungry and sick; still drunk but with the beginning of a hangover making its presence known. He began to trot, then stopped to vomit, shielding the dog. A loud rustling noise from behind him evoked images of predators stalking them. Panic set in, and he began to run again, aimlessly in the dark.

  As fatigue started to overtake him once more, he tried to duck a limb at the last moment and stumbled, losing his balance. He crashed to the ground, turning himself on his back on the way down so as not to crush his beloved companion.

  8 The Candidate Rises

  Brenda leafed through clippings from each of the major city newspapers, highlighting key passages. She knew they were going to make Brand angry, but he’d be angrier if she tried to sugar-coat the truth. It is what it is, Mr. Brand. I’ll save the best for last, to end the meeting on a high note.

  She reluctantly gathered the stack of papers and headed toward the elevator, deciding to take a less robust approach with him. Why do I bother? Sometimes I almost hope he loses. I can’t take the drama or insults much longer. I hope he’s not loaded yet.

  As she arrived on Brand’s exclusive floor, she approached his admin assistant at the desk outside the office doors.

  “Dear Leader awaits your presence,” he said, rolling his eyes. They shook their heads at each other.

  The assistant leaned toward her on her way past. “I took a poll. There is actually nobody working for this man that doesn’t despise him. Including his wife.”

  “Thanks for the laugh. I’m going to need it after Brand sees these,” she said, waving the stack of clippings at him.

  Brand was reclining in his leather executive chair with his shoes off and argyle-socked feet on the desk. He held a remote control in one hand and a large tumbler of bourbon in the other. She waited as he continuously rewound and replayed a section of his last rally.

  “Damn, Brenda. Look at me. Has anyone ever looked more presidential?”

  She didn’t answer, thinking it was a rhetorical question, until she realized he was waiting for a response. “No, sir. That is one of your finest moments to date. You get better every time.”

  “Thank you, Brenda,” he said, taking a large swallow. “Tell me what you liked the most about that one.”

  She hesitated. “I guess just the crowd’s reaction, they were really into it.”

  He put the tumbler down. “Brenda, the crowd is a response to me. I was asking about me, Brenda. Not the crowd. Jesus.”

  “Oh, of course. I think it’s the suit. You look great in it. Presidential.”

  “I give up,” he said, picking the tumbler back up. “Okay, let’s get through this. I want to catch the next political show at the top of the hour.”

  They went through the editorials, which primarily consisted of damning and dire predictions of what his election would mean, and thankfulness that his odds of winning the Republican nomination were slim. Some were insulting, and he began to drink more quickly as his temper grew.

  “The fucking press is full of goddamn liberals and Jews. I’m going to do something about that as soon as I’m elected.”

  “Sir, the country is built upon a free press. It’s a fundamental pillar of our democracy. If you try to tear it down, it would be bad for you.”

  “Bullshit. Don’t give me that crap about what the founding brothers or whatever they were called said hundreds of years ago. Maybe the press was fair then. They’re all a bunch of goddamn socialist commies now. They don’t understand my greatness. I can’t seem to get it across to them.

  “I mean, look at this rally,” he continued, gesturing to the TV with the remote. “The place was mobbed. Sold out. Lines of people waiting down the street to get in.”

  “Yes, but all in all, that’s a fraction of the people who live in that city alone. You can’t be led to overconfidence by those crowds. It will cost our win. We have to behave as if we’re behind.” She was tempted to tell him that most were there for the freak show his events had become.

  He brushed her comment off. “What’s coming up? We need more events—maybe something for cops and veterans. I can’t stand either group, frankly. They put on a uniform to impress the women, stand around doing nothing their whole career, then want a big pity party and attention everywhere they go. One or two do something heroic, and the whole bunch of them want the damn credit for it. What the hell do they make, a few thousand a year? They’re nowhere near as successful as I’ve been.

  “But everybody loves them, so I have to love them. Or at least pretend to, for now. If we somehow win the primaries this week, we can lock up the nomination. Once we do that, I want a big event with lots of vets and cops surrounding me to kick off our run in the general election. Start setting it up. I feel good about this.”

  She sensed he was intoxicated past the point of no return, and she wanted badly to leave. As she had planned, she finished with some articles from extreme right-wing publications, which were very favorable toward him. It brightened his mood, and as she knew he would, he switched to his flirtatious demeanor.

  “Hey, Brenda. There’s so much stress with all this work every single day. Here we are again, working late. I’m all knotted up from the stress. Would you mind?” he asked, motioning to his back.

  “No, I’m not giving you a back rub. Ask your wife.”

  “She’s out o
f town. Again. You know how it is with us. It’s pretty much for appearance, she hates my guts. I’m bored of her, too. I’m gonna be on the market someday. Until then, we could keep it on the down-low. You and I could be good together.”

  She began picking up her things without answering.

  “You want a drink, Brenda? How about dinner? I could have it brought up for us. The best stuff. You name it—steak, lobster, whatever you want. Let’s just have dinner and a few drinks.”

  “I can’t, sir. I won’t. Please don’t ask again.”

  As he always did, he began to sulk.

  I’ve got to get out of here, now. Brenda was heading for the door when she remembered a promise she’d made. She paused, torn between that promise and the door. They were heading out of town for events soon, so she had to ask.

  “Sir, my mom’s a fan of yours. She’s pretty old and not doing well—early stages of Alzheimer's. I want to do something for her while I can since I’m away a lot. Do you think you could meet her if I brought her up here before our trip to Miami?”

  He swiveled in his chair and turned to her, red-faced from the booze. “Uh, you know how I am with the germs and all that.” He opened a desk drawer and pulled out an eight-by-ten black and white photograph of himself and signed it with a flourish, not bothering to ask her mother’s name to add it. He held it up, enticing her to come closer to him.

  I knew he’d do that. You can’t catch Alzheimer’s, asshole. She approached the front of the desk, rather than come around behind it as he was indicating. She held out her hand for it, and he gave it to her with a grudging look.

  “Thank you,” she said, as she went straight for the door without looking back. “See you tomorrow.”

  He didn’t answer.

  9 Walk in the Woods

  Tommy woke to a throbbing head and Whitey licking his face, whimpering. He reached up to push the dog away, and his hand came away wet. He held it out, expecting to see the dog’s saliva, but found it coated in blood instead. Lying on his back, he looked straight up at the trees rising into the dim early dawn sky, struggling to piece together what had led to him wake up there.