“So.”
“So,” he repeated after her. He brought the Skittles bag up to his mouth and dumped in a small load.
“So,” Jen said again, eyebrows raised, eyes intent on the other cop in the car, “Go on, man. I wanna hear how it ends.”
With a mouth full of candy, Locke mumbled a response she couldn’t understand. He chipmunk grinned again while she shook her head and waited with a smirk.
After he finished, he said, “First things first, this isn't a story. That’s the Bible. This is reality. I don’t know the end. But secondly, and more importantly? I’m out of Skittles. Wanna go get some real food? I need dinner.”
Her small face widened with surprise and she pretended to smack herself in the face with her well-manicured hands.
“How in the world do you eat like this and still look so good?” Immediately, her café au lait Hispanic face gave way to bright flush of red.
Locke laughed. Her red deepened.
“Thanks, Gracia. Only, I don’t date other cops. But hey, feel free to throw more of that my way. I do like compliments.”
She turned away, wouldn’t look back, put the car into drive and tried her best to contain her embarrassment.
“No worries, Jen. You look good too.”
She tried to look at him indignantly, but her smile belied her efforts. “Where do you wanna eat, Locke?”
“Wrap?”
“You’re lucky I’m Spanish. No one else could eat at that place every freaking night, ya know?”
“Eh, it’s not every night. And who knows how long we’ll be out here in the Oh to enjoy it.”
The transmission clunked, the wheelbase shook as the engine revved and the RMP headed down towards Forest and Jewett.
Saturday
January 26, 2013
Finger Fucked
He tapped the credit card and made a straight line with the white powder, snorted it through a rolled dollar bill. He inhaled deeply, breathed in the feeling and looked back at his late night snack. Louie nursed a generic orange soda while he ate from a cold foam container of leftover Popeye’s chicken. He sat on a decrepit, black metal folding chair in front of an equally cheap old table, the plastic folding variety that most people just bought for summer barbecues, not long term use. The table had worn out along the stained plastic edges, metal legs rusted where they met the screws keeping them attached to the tabletop. It had once been white, but had long since turned a brittle, ugly yellow, not unlike the walls of the apartment itself. They might have been white once, too, but generations of cigarette smoke and perpetual disregard had rendered them the color of diluted tobacco juice. It wasn’t Louie’s place though, so he didn’t care much about how run down everything was. Didn’t care about the girl who lived there, either. He didn’t even know her name, the girl asleep in the small bedroom just behind him.
That nameless girl was laid out on faded maroon sheets, atop a mattress and box spring, no frame. Smurf bed sheets hung from the tops of the apartment windows, held in place with dirty push-pins, none of which matched. It was one twenty-three in the morning, no sunlight to shine through the sheer, old fabric. Not that sunlight would’ve woken the girl. It wasn’t the dark and it wasn’t the alcohol that had her out cold. It was the Molly that Louie had slipped into her drink. By the time she’d wake up, dried blood between her upper thighs and ass cheeks, he’d be long gone.
Due to his growing reputation, some of them found out Louie’s name. But fear kept them from speaking out. Most of the time. The only thing bigger than his reputation for rape was his reputation for how he dealt with those who spoke about what he’d done when it happened.
When he’d gotten out from his first stint, he’d gone straight to the girl who helped put him inside. She should never have answered the knock on the door, not even a crack. He was deceptively scrawny, unreasonably strong. He pushed his tattoo-covered body inside, brown eyes blazing. He grabbed the frying pan and went to town. He knocked all but the molars out of her mouth, blackened both eyes, and fractured her cheek bones. He finished up his lesson by grabbing the girl’s six-month old baby. Gravity knife hovering just inches away from its neck, he threatened to make the baby into a piñata if she ratted on him again. She thanked God that the stove hadn’t been on, that the pan was at least cold. She never went to the cops.
Louie went on raping women.
In the puke-colored apartment, Louie finished the food that wasn’t his, stood up and wiped his greasy hands on some Smurfs hanging beside him. He went into the bedroom to grab his thick black jacket, threw it on and walked out into the halls of 240 Henderson Avenue with the fur-lined hood up and his head down. He got into the elevator, went to the first floor and exited the building without ever looking up. He left the West Brighton Housing Projects, never giving the cameras a clear view of his face, just another big, baggy jacket in the bitterly cold projects.
The skies were clear but even at its highest, the day hadn’t reached thirty. Now, going into the new day, it looked like a sixth in a row of wicked weather. Two weeks’ prior, the weather was unseasonably warm, but now Louie could barely feel his dark brown fingertips as he walked through the night. He was sure that his umber brown face looked blue.
It took Louie more than ten minutes for him to walk to Trinity Place. He hated exerting himself like that, freezing like that, but he figured it was worth it for an easy fuck. Anyway, soon enough he’d be inside his grandmother’s house smoking a joint. Then he could sleep until well after noon and do it all again.
Louie’s five-foot-two, seventy-eight-pound grandmother didn’t like what she saw of her grandson’s behavior, and she didn’t even know about his weekend affairs with unconsenting women. But if she aired her opinions, she’d get thrown in a closet for a few days with a bucket for a toilet. She’d learned very quickly to just keep her mouth shut.
Louie didn’t know it as he walked home, but Grandma wouldn’t be his main concern in just a few more minutes.
As he merrily skipped up the two steps to the white door of the sky blue house, he noticed the fence door was open on his left. Not just unlatched, but wide fuckin’ open. The five foot ten, hundred-forty-pound perp cursed under his breath. He hated it when his grandmother left it open; he’d already had to chase his pit-bull down the block three times because of her.
“You’re getting the fucking closet tonight, bitch,” he said towards the offending door. He stormed over to the side of the house. Slinging obscenities, anger rising, he hauled the white chain link fence door closed. Something crashed in his backyard. It sounded like one of his grandmother’s garden gnomes breaking.
“Da fuck?” He opened the gate again, went to check out the disturbance. He only made it a few steps when he heard his name being whispered in the darkness. Louie walked over to the blue shed at the end of the yard; it sounded like the whisper had come from in there.
Broken gnome in front of the red door.
His hands were shaking. His heart raced as he grabbed the knob and swung it open.
Nothing there. Just clutter and cobwebs. He let out a deep sigh and laughed at himself. He was mid-turn, when he saw something behind him move in the shadows.
As Louie’s eyes finished coming back around, Kent raised his snub nose .38 to meet them. They widened with terror. Louie shrieked, his arms coming up in front of his face, palms out.
The gun’s aim lowered to crotch level. Kent kept his body straight, planted in place. Gritted his teeth. “Greetings, fuck bag. So, who’d you rape, tonight?”
Before Louie could answer, the gun fired off a round. The sound crashed through the quiet night. A stray orange feral cat leaped out from behind the shed and took off out the open gate door.
Louie dropped to his knees, opened his mouth to scream. Kent crashed the butt of the gun into the gaping hole. Louie’s teeth shattered on impact, blood and white shards propelled in all directions like too-large confetti. His mouth instinctively clamped shut to protect itself. Tears came stre
aming from the rapist’s eyes as his body crumpled to the snowcapped grass below.
Kent crouched down next to the manic mess, looked into traumatized eyes and spoke. “Damn you to Hell, fucking rapist bastard.”
The boogeyman in black positioned the gun in front of the still-smoking hole in Louie’s jeans, pushed it against where his manhood used to be, felt around with the nose of the gun for what little remained. A double tap roared through the air. Two more bloody holes ripped through his jeans. Louie fell flat, face down in the snow, white stained red.
The thrill was overwhelming for Kent. He showed his other hand now, and the long metal rod it held. A piece of rusted, discarded trash from who knew where. Louie couldn't even see straight, but struggled to whimper out a no.
Behind the ski mask, Kent’s face widened into a certifiably sadistic smile. He stood up, walked behind the crying man and shoved the pole down and into Louie’s rectum. The man yelped as tears like rivers burst forth. Kent put his body weight into it and twisted the rod in deeper. He thanked God for choosing him to do his divine bidding. He was so taken by the moment that he almost didn’t hear it. The radio.
A police band radio.
Behind him, not far off. He turned slowly, a cold sweat immediately blanketing his body. He could see through the still open gate, the figure standing on the sidewalk just a yard away.
Fuck. Rookie on a foot post.
Lucky rookie on his foot post just walked into an assault in progress. An assault at the hands of the infamous Staten Island vigilante. The uniformed cop stuttered something unintelligible and went to his holster. Kent jumped up, ran straight in the rookie’s direction as the cop’s gun came up. Kent reached for the gate and a crack filled the air.
Kent’s lungs lost all air; he stumbled back, held tightly to the gate, struggling not to fall. Thanked God for Kevlar. The other cop was still standing in place, his gun pointing straight at Kent. He heaved in a mass of air, sucked down the pain along with it and swung the gate closed. He stumbled forward and slapped the handle in place as another crack filled the air. A hole tore through the fence an inch from where Kent’s hand still was.
“Fuck!” Kent yelled. The rookie meant business.
Another shot and Kent felt his left hand burning. He looked down at his left hand, only three fingers and a thumb looked back. He didn’t know where his pinky was. The shock covered the pain, almost covered the soft crunching noise as well. Footsteps in snow. Don’t zone out. Stay focused. The cop was running for the gate. Kent had to run too.
He turned and escaped into the recess of the yard. He grabbed the fence with his mutilated hand and hoisted himself up and over it. He screamed as he did. Lost a goddamn fucking finger. He couldn’t believe he’d lost a finger. But he wasn’t about to lose his gun. He clutched it in his right hand like it was his very life, even as he slammed into the ground on the other side of the fence.
James Kent ran with all he had. Didn’t look back, not once, just ran. Through the familiar trails, over the old fences he’d hopped the last time he’d killed in this neighborhood. Kent kept going; he was close, maybe another two blocks of zigzags and he’d see his car. Then he’d be home free. Except he knew he wasn't. He'd left evidence of himself at a crime scene. A goddamn fucking finger.
His lungs were close to explosion, body might betray him if he kept pushing it. He couldn’t run that fast, but he had no choice. He pushed himself, faster than the last time. Even faster than the night he’d run from Nick. Inside his mask, spit soaked into the fabric covering his mouth, sweat glued the knitted top to his forehead. He was sure he’d lost the rookie at least one block back, he couldn’t hear that radio anymore. But that was no good. He had to double back somehow. Get the rookie out this far so he could make it back to get his finger!
Fuck!
His car. There was his car. He could see it. Less than a block away. His car, his sweet, sweet safety. But he had to go back. He didn't know what to do. He had tunnel vision. All he saw was the bright white Maxima. His oasis in the desert. Not the Chevy. He didn’t see that one, didn’t see the black car riding stealth through the neighborhood. The slick top with nothing written on the side, no NYPD written out plain, announcing itself. Just riding stealth. And Kent didn’t see it and it was coming up quick.
He didn’t see it until he became a part of it. Kent met the front right side fender full force, body launched into the open space above him with strength and speed. Pavement received him with open arms. He felt his right wrist explode with pain. Knees scraped bloodily through black jeans as he skidded to a stop a few feet away from the unmarked RMP. He could see his gun a few feet away, but it was hazy. Blackness beckoned him to come as voices shouted in the distance. Voices that seemed to be getting closer. He tried to move, but nothing in his body responded.
Something warm grabbed at his arms, felt like someone else’s sweaty flesh. They grasped at his arms, pulled at his ruined wrist. Kent shoved his left arm under his body to keep it out of reach; screaming pain overwhelmed him as the stump that was once his pinky finger rubbed against asphalt. He felt the touch of cold hard steel slide against his right wrist.
Cuffs.
The cop hadn’t gotten them on yet, but it was coming, and the blackness was welcoming Kent. He fought back against it with all he had as a sickening realization washed over him.
He was about to be arrested. For murder.
Saturday
January 26, 2013
Empty Gun
The rookie heard the thud, the tires screeching, the other cops yelling. He had only a few weeks out of the Academy. He was lucky to even be stationed on Staten Island. But this night was all about even better luck than that. He took off down the block at top speed, his shiny new gear thumping and clanging as he went. Winded, but smiling.
“That's my fucking collar!”
At the end of the block, Officer Jennifer Gracia was shouting to her partner as she swung the RMP door open. Maxwell Locke was already trying to slap the cuffs into place on at least one wrist belonging to the body underneath him. The vigilante was still semi-conscious, took one hell of a deplorable fall, but still semi-conscious, still fighting back despite Locke pressing down on the perp with his full body weight.
Gracia was running at them, gun out. Locke had jumped out while the wheels were still moving, a lion on a gazelle, didn’t want to give the murderer a chance of getting up outside of those cuffs.
Kent continued to wrestle against the pressure anyway, kicked his legs wildly with all the strength he had left. Wasn’t letting anyone get those bracelets on him.
“Holy shit. We fucking got ’im!” Gracia yelled at her partner. Locke struggled against the squirming. “You’re under arrest, asshole!” Gracia yelled down to Kent, his covered face still shoved against the street.
“Not yet. He’s a fighter,” Locke barked without looking up.
You would be too if your life was at stake, motherfucker, Kent thought right before his stomach lurched, right before realization landed like a punch. Fuck. That voice. He recognized that voice.
Gracia’s Sig Sauer kept cover. One cuff clicked into place, but Locke still had to fight to get that other arm. The rookie came running up next, yelling like a tenor banshee. Locke jerked his head.
“Locke!” Gracia yelled.
But she was too late. Kent lurched upward, bucked the cop off his back, kicked back hard, felt his boot heel connect with Locke’s jaw. The cop threw out a hand at the balaclava as Kent pushed against his feet to stand.
The mask came off as he got up.
“No.” Locke looked up, slack jawed at the bloody mess that was his former partner. His former partner who now stood before him dressed head to toe in black, a bloody river gushing from his right shoulder, a deformed hand, a battered wrist connected to dangling cuffs.
Max just stared; nothing in life made sense.
“I… I know him.”
“What?” Gracia stared at her partner sitting useless,
mumbling to himself. She yelled at Kent, told him not to move, had no idea who he was. Kent looked at the Sig, then down at Locke, then at the .38 laying a few feet away. Kent looked back at Locke. Both their eyes shifted back and forth between each other and that gun.
Kent shifted and they both dove in unison.
They fought for it on the ground, wrestling like wolves over fresh kill. Instinctively, Kent threw his dominant fist, the one destroyed by the fall, into Locke’s already aching jaw. The cuffs cut into Locke’s cheek. He grunted and fell back. Kent screamed and scurried for the snub nose. He grabbed it with his left hand, blood smearing the bottom of the handle.
“Locke! You’re blocking my view! Move!” Gracia was in a panic.
“No! James, don’t do -”
It was all Max could say before a bullet whizzed over his head.
James crouched down, now holding the gun.
“Gracia! You fucking nuts?!” Locke yelled, eyes still on Kent.
“Wasn’t me!” She looked next to her at the rookie. “Put that fucking thing down, you stupid shit! You’re gonna shoot my fucking partner!”
“Then he better get the fuck outta the way.” The rookie didn’t look at her, didn’t flinch.
“You little shit.” She stepped in front of him, the barrel of his gun now aimed at her collar brass.
The rookie’s face turned red with anger. “Get outta my way!”
“I know him,” Max said louder than the first time.
“Know him, how?” Gracia asked, slightly turning back to him, but still obscuring the rookie’s view. Every step he’d take right or left, she’d mimic.
“I know him.” Max’s voice was like that of a child staring at a limp puppy crushed by the family car.
Kent put his knees on the ground, kept his hands at his sides. The cuffs hung from his right hand; in his left, the gun, its handle and nose dripping blood.
D.O.A. Page 16