Thorns on Roses

by Randy Rawls

  Raul watched Laury and Izzy exchange looks of fear. Good. Scare them enough, and they’ll stay in line. “We’re not going to worry about them anymore. They’re history. You’re the ones I have to take care of. We might have to step up our recruiting plans though. We can’t hit a bank or an armored car with only three of us. Once we re-staff, it’ll be your jobs to train them.” He paused to allow his words to sink in. “Now, on to more important things. Are you packing?”

  “I got mine,” Izzy said.

  “Let me see it.”

  “Uh…it’s in my pickup.”

  “Well, get it, you fool. I told you to keep it on you.”

  “But I got on shorts and a T-shirt. Where I gonna put it? It’s just a meetin’ tonight.”

  “That’s your damn problem—thinking you can think. You’ll live longer if you do what I say and leave the thinking to me.” As Izzy opened the door, Raul said, “And you’d better have your knife in your pocket when I ask for it.”

  Izzy jumped out of the SUV.

  “Laury?” Raul said.

  He turned his head away. “What?”

  “Don’t play stupid with me. Where’s your damn gun? Give it to me.”

  “I, ah…I can’t. It’s home. You know my woman don’t want me carryin’ it. I have to sneak it out when we do a job.”

  Raul glared until Laury turned away. “Now that’s real damn smart. That’s sure as hell going to scare the Crips. Or maybe it’s the Bloods that are on your ass. What will you do?” He pitched his voice in soprano. “Please Mr. Crip. Give me time to ask my mama if I can have my gun. I promise I be right back.” He reverted to his normal voice. “You’re a stupid, lily-livered son of a bitch with the IQ of a lizard. No, you’re dumber than a lizard. They can at least catch flies. You couldn’t catch a fly if I covered you in honey. But if you don’t start listening, you’ll be a dead, stupid, lily-livered, honey-covered, no-flies son of a bitch. I can’t be around to protect you every minute.”

  Raul let out a long breath, then mumbled, “I have to find some real soldiers somewhere.”

  The door opened, and Izzy pushed his pistol toward Raul, barrel first. “See, I got it. I told you it was in my car.”

  “Turn that damn thing around. Is it loaded?”

  “Yessir.” Izzy switched the pistol so the handle was toward Raul. “I got five rounds in it. And here’s my knife, too.” He fumbled in his pocket and came out with a four-inch switchblade. “Check it. I sharpened it last night. You can shave with it.”

  “I don’t shave, you fool. Haven’t you noticed my beard?”

  “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean that.”

  Raul took the revolver. “You have to learn to say what you mean and mean what you say. Flopping around with words proves your lack of intelligence.” He flipped the cylinder open, then peered down the barrel. He ejected the bullets, closed the cylinder, and pulled the trigger. Next, he examined each round before returning it to Izzy, satisfied. “Good. That’s the way to maintain a gun—clean and ready to go. Now, don’t let me catch you without it again.”

  “Yessir. I’ll think of some way to carry it. Wanna see my knife?”

  “I see it. It’s in your hand. Open it.”

  Izzy pressed the button, and the blade sprang out.

  “Fine,” Raul said. “Put it away.”

  “Now you, Laury.” He continued to berate Laury about being a mama’s boy as he checked his knife. Raul wouldn’t admit it, but he was pleased at what he saw. It was clean, and the blade was razor sharp.

  When he finished his inspection, he said, “Keep your eyes open for candidates. No mama’s boys though.” He stared at Laury. “I have enough of them. I want real men. And no more women. That last bitch wasn’t worth the hassle. If all you want is to get laid, pay for it. That’s a damn sight smarter than bringing in some broad that talks big, then wants to quit in the middle. Now let’s get to the reason for the meeting—our finances. The cash box is in pretty good shape. Enough for day-to-day expenses. It’ll be a lot better after our first bank job though. I’ve been reconnoitering several and know exactly which one to hit. It’ll be a piece of cake…”

  Thirty minutes later, Raul adjourned the meeting with a final warning. “Be ready to fight at all times. Somebody’s after us. Keep your knife ready, blade out, and have your gun where you can grab it. You feel something behind you, be ready to cut it. Grow eyes in the back of your head. Don’t let them catch you not looking. Vigilance will save you. The Thorns on Roses will not be taken down.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Izzy lived in a rundown neighborhood of small one-story concrete block houses. Once they were nice, but the ravages of time and lack of maintenance had turned them into the South Florida version of a slum. Tom wasn’t thrilled with leaving his car unguarded, but didn’t want to park too close to Izzy’s house. The convertible with its vulnerable cloth top sat a block away between two SUVs. Maybe their size would offer protection. At least, it would make his car more difficult to see.

  Tom lay on the ground under a hedge-gone-wild growing between the small-lot houses. The shadowing gave his dark clothing perfect cover. When he first arrived, he noted the lack of illumination in Izzy’s place, then knocked on the front door. When no one answered, Tom worked his way around the house, checking each window and the back door. No one home. Then he retreated to his hidey-hole to wait.

  Waiting in ambush was not new to Tom. He’d done it many times before when the stakes were much higher. Working in the depths of an enemy area waiting for a particular target was nerve-racking. But Tom had mastered it by forcing his body and mind into a kind of limbo. It was like everything went to sleep except for one spotlight that concentrated its energy on the target. That night, waiting for Izzy, he did the same. Bugs crawled over his hands and other insects hummed in and out of his view. However, they had no affect on his concentration. He was in his zone—all lights out except the one that scanned for Izzy.

  Tom glanced at his watch and saw that it was almost midnight, time for people with early jobs to be in bed. He knew Izzy’s shift started at six and hoped he was not the type who could party all night, then make it to work the next day. He wanted to catch him at home, or at least walking up to his house. Death would be quick and bloody. Tom had decided to leave him as a message to gang members everywhere.

  Traffic along the street had slowed with only an occasional car passing. That was to Tom’s advantage. However, grabbing someone in a front yard invited complications, not the least of which was the proverbial curious bystander. One scream could attract a passerby. And of course, there was always the possibility Izzy would have a companion when he arrived. If so…Tom would make that call. Izzy had to go down tonight. He simply did not have time to let it drag out.

  Tom’s hearing had attuned itself to the noises of the night—the occasional yap of a dog, tires singing against the pavement as a car drove by, insects buzzing, TV sounds seeping out of neighbors’ houses, even a loud snore. That was about it. Pedestrian traffic had ceased.

  He heard a vehicle on the street and strained to see through the bush. It was a sedan, and it slowed, then turned into Izzy’s driveway. Its condition was about what he’d expect from someone like Izzy. Almost as much rust as paint. And the knocking of the engine quieted the bugs.

  Tom rose to his knees, getting ready to dash as soon as the car stopped. While Izzy was busy turning off the engine, removing the key and undoing his seatbelt, Tom intended to position himself beside the door, ready to grab as soon as it opened.

  The car stopped, and Tom ran, circling behind, then coming up alongside the back door on the driver’s side in a squat. The door opened and Tom sprang, grabbing a handful of the scruff of Izzy’s shirt and jerking him out. He landed with a thud on his back. Tom heard a satisfying whoosh of breath.

  In an instant, Tom’s knee rested on Izzy’s Adam’s apple. “Don’t say a word. Geda sent me to get you. He’s hurt and needs your help.”

  “Wh-wh,�
�� Izzy stuttered, trying to breathe and talk around the knee.

  “Be quiet. I’ll help you up, then we’ll get out of here.” Tom raised his knee and took Izzy by the arm, intending to pull him to his feet.

  “That’s bullshit,” Izzy said and swung.

  Tom felt a hot sting along his forearm and realized Izzy had a blade. He’d scored, but unfortunately for him, not Tom’s knife arm. Without thinking, Tom rolled away and came up into a fighter’s crouch, his knife at the ready. His left arm stung and warm blood dripped down his fingertips. He spared a glance. Didn’t look good, but he’d live with it. The question was how much use he had of it. He looked back and saw Izzy was on his feet, circling to his left, a knife in his right hand. Tom shifted so he presented a narrower target and kept his injured arm at his side away from Izzy.

  “You sombitch,” Izzy said. “Geda didn’t send you. You from the Crips or one of them other gangs. El General said you was coming. He knows all about what you doin’. But you met your match this time. I ain’t easy like Geda and Johnny. You gonna die.”

  “Talk’s cheap, Izzy, and so are you.” Tom countered Izzy’s movement. “Drop the knife now, and you might live to see tomorrow.”

  “I ain’t the one dripping blood all over the driveway.” He lunged at Tom’s midsection, and Tom canceled it by knocking the arm aside, the knife grabbing cloth as it swung by.

  He stepped into Izzy and nicked his upper arm. “Okay,” Tom said. “Now you’re a dead man.”

  Izzy lunged again, and Tom parried it, his subconscious mind studying Izzy’s movements. He realized Izzy’s knife training came from TV. His moves so far showed no professionalism, only the clumsiness of a man emulating something he’d seen. He checked his left arm again as Izzy lined up for another try. Blood ran off Tom’s fingers. He needed to end it soon, but he’d do it another way. A simple stabbing was too good for the likes of Izzy.

  “You mighty quiet, big man,” Izzy said. “Getting weak from loss of blood? Feelin’ a little sick? Don’t worry, it won’t last long.” He jumped forward, spearing at Tom.

  Tom stepped aside and sliced across Izzy’s gut. The shirt separated and blood spurted through.

  Izzy rolled back, his left hand fumbling at his wound. He held his hand in front of his face, then lunged again.

  Again, Tom countered easily and inflicted another cut, just deep enough to draw another gusher of blood. Now Izzy’s pants were turning red and his movements produced a squishing sound on the pavement.

  “I ain’t finished,” Izzy said and tried again.

  This time, Tom smashed down on Izzy’s wrist with the haft of his blade and heard a satisfying crack from Izzy’s arm. Izzy’s knife clattered onto the asphalt.

  Tom grabbed Izzy’s arm and spun him, using his bad arm to brace along the back of Izzy’s head. His other arm circled Izzy’s head and he gripped across Izzy’s forehead. He gave a quick jerk and Izzy’s neck snapped. Izzy went limp against Tom and sagged. Tom stepped back and let him drop. He sprawled onto his back, his lifeless eyes staring at nothingness, the night absorbing the stench of his bowels.

  “Now for a lesson for gangbangers everywhere.” Tom leaned down and sliced across Izzy’s neck. “That should do it. The word will get around.”

  Tom stood and squeezed his arm. Blood oozed between his fingers. “Crap,” he said, pulling at his black long-sleeved T-shirt. Even as he took off the shirt, he was checking Izzy’s condition. When he slapped the cheek, the head tried to roll away, held only by a flap of skin.

  Tom ran, wrapping his shirt around his arm. He had to get home and examine the damage. The arm hurt, but he shut it out. First priority was getting out of the killing zone. If any of Izzy’s neighbors happened by, the body lay in clear view.

  Less than a minute later, he was in his car, speeding away from the neighborhood. He cursed himself. He shouldn’t have played with Izzy. He should have taken him out fast. There was the possibility someone saw or heard, and the cops were on their way. Always the curious bystander to worry about.

  Several blocks from Izzy’s, he parked and dialed his cell phone. “Charlie, I need you. My house. Bring your kit.” He disconnected, then wrapped his arm in a jacket he kept in the trunk. Blood in the car could bring questions later. He pulled out, driving at a normal rate of speed, not wanting a bored cop to stop him for speeding.

  Charlie had been an A Team medic in Special Forces. That meant he’d received more medical training, especially for wounds, than most GPs. Tom had no doubt Charlie could stitch his arm. Soon, it would be as good as new. He thought the bleeding had slowed, a positive sign even if the pain had sharpened. Until he put it under light, he wouldn’t know how deep the cut was.

  Too bad he’d left Izzy in his driveway. Someone would spot him as soon as the sun came up, if not before. By breakfast time, cops would be all over the area. Tom drove, reliving every moment. Had he left any clue, any indication he’d been there? One possibility was the spot where he’d lain in wait. He’d undoubtedly left DNA traces. Nothing he could do about it now but hope they didn’t find it. And his blood. He thought through the fight. He and Izzy spurted blood in the same small area. Maybe it mingled enough with Izzy’s to lose its identity. If it didn’t, he’d have to face that challenge if it came. Nothing else he could think of.

  There were still two of the gang to bring down. It was a race between him and the police. If he won, the thugs lost. If he lost…“What do you think, Sis? Want to offer odds on this one?”

  * * * *

  Charlie put the bedside phone down and rested his hands on his knees. A tired look covered his face.

  “What is it?” Lonnie said. “Who was that?”

  Charlie stood and began to pull on his pants. “Tom. I have to go out.”

  “Is he okay? He’s not hurt, is he?”

  “Not sure,” he said in a soft voice. “He said I should bring my kit.”

  Lonnie rolled out of bed. “I’m going with you. You know what he’s doing, don’t you? He’s avenging Mary Lou. And now, something has happened to him. If he’s hurt bad, I’ll never forgive myself. We have to stop him.”

  Charlie faced his wife. “Go back to bed. If he’s hurt, there’s nothing you can do. I’ll take care of him. I have before, and although I hate to think it, I’ll probably have to in the future. As for avenging Mary Lou… Yes, that’s the way he sees it. But it’s deeper than that. It’s not Mary Lou, it’s Elizabeth, his sister. He’s still seeking revenge against her killers and will go to his grave doing it. Tom cannot forget that the justice system let her murderers walk.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. Please, Lonnie. Tom is doing things the way his training taught him to. And he’s the best I ever worked with. Now it’s time for me to do what I can to help. I can’t stop him, but at least I can be there when he needs me. Go back to bed. I’ll be home in a few hours.” He pulled on his pants, then ran his arms into his shirt. As he slipped into a pair of loafers, he said, “Try to sleep.” He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll be back before you have time to miss me.”

  * * * *

  Tom and Charlie sat at Tom’s kitchen table, Tom’s arm stretched out between them. While Tom unwound the jacket from the cut, Charlie brought in the desk lamp from Tom’s computer table. Charlie peered at the slash under the glare of the sixty-watt bulb.

  “Looks like there’s no serious damage. You’re going to be sore and won’t have much use of the arm for a few days,” Charlie said. “But I’ve seen worse. Hell, I’ve seen worse on you. Hang on while I get things ready. I’ll put some stitches in it. What color would you like?”

  “Funny man.” The arm hurt like hell, but had almost stopped bleeding. As he expected, Charlie handled it like the professional he was. And so far, had restrained from asking too many questions. That was short-lived.

  Charlie laid out his equipment. “Okay, while I have you under my power, what the hell happened here? I can tell you got sliced by a s
harp knife so you don’t have to tell me that part. In fact, looking at this, my guess was the guy used a scalpel. Start with who did it.”

  How much should I tell him? As little as I can get away with. “You know, I’m hurting so bad, I can’t remember what happened. Must have tripped and fallen on some glass.”

  “Sure. And my grandfather was a WAC. Try again.”

  Tom went quiet, digging to find something Charlie might believe. He found nothing. “I’d rather not tell you. Chalk it up to operations security. The less you know, the better off we both are.”

  Charlie glared at him. “Who do you think you’re fooling? You’re still the hardheaded son-of-a-bitch you’ve always been. But you’re as transparent as clear water. I’ll tell you. You went after one of Mary Lou’s killers, and he got lucky. How’d you leave him?” He paused. “I’m not taking a stitch until you start talking.”

  “Leave it alone, Charlie. You’ll just have to trust me.”

  Charlie began to pack his kit. “Play it your way. And try not to bleed to death the first time you bump that arm.”

  “Bastard,” Tom said. “You’d really leave me like this, wouldn’t you?”

  Charlie looked at the needle in his hand. “You bet your sweet ass I would. What’s it going to be? This…” He simulated a sewing motion. “Or this?” He reached toward his open bag. “Your call.”

  “Okay,” Tom said, anger in his voice. “I left the bastard dead, his head rolling away from the body. Does that make you happy?”

  “Who was it?”

  “A low-life named Isidro Walker. He’s one of the gang who did Mary Lou. I mean, he was one of the gang. He won’t be hurting any more girls.”

  Charlie sat beside Tom, grasping his wounded arm. “Grit your teeth. This is going to hurt.” He shoved the needle through the lip of the injury. “How many have you killed?”

  Tom grimaced. “He was the third. There’s nothing left of the first two to connect me. I had to leave this one in his driveway. That means I’ve got to move my— Ouch. Damn, that’s not a pin cushion you’re stabbing.”