by Lee Deadkeys
Ox took the phone from his friend and stepped into the little office. Gary could see the big man talking through the dirty window, his face pinched with concern.
“What a momma’s boy,” Jose said.
“Shut up, asshole,” Gary said, walking into the office as Ox finished his conversation and handed him the phone.
“Ethel okay?” he asked, taking the phone and reaching around the wall to hang it up.
“I don’t know. I hope so but she’s getting old, ya know?” Ox sat in one of the two chairs.
“Yeah, I know. What’s the trouble?”
“Well, I don’t know how to say this without it sounding crazy….”
“It’s all right man, I don’t think anything bad about Ethel. Hell, she’s like a mother to me.”
Ox looked at the door and nodded; Gary stepped all the way in, closing the door behind him.
“She says there are some rats that won’t let her in the shed,” Ox chuckled but his eyes showed real concern.
“Uh, okay.”
“Yeah, I know. Sounds nuts, but she is so upset and it takes a lot to rattle Mom. Shit, you know her.”
Gary nodded, thinking of how the old woman had set him straight a time or two. She was a tough lady.
Ox stopped pretending to see the humor in the situation and looked his friend in the eye. “That’s not the worst of it. She says the rats are guarding something in the shed.”
“Guarding something? What?”
“She didn’t say. Said she didn’t want to make them mad, said they seemed defiant. Does that sound a little nuts to you, ‘cause it kinda does to me.”
Gary kicked at something on the floor. “Well, I don’t know. It’s good you’re going to check it out though. Rats could be sick, you know?”
“Yeah, that’s trueI hadn’t thought of that.”
“At any rate, I can hold down the fort for a few days while you check it out. Don’t worry about anything.”
Ox stood and stuck out a hand to his friend, “Preciate it man. I’ll head out there Friday evening, then.” Gary clapped him on the shoulder.
Day 2,Morning
Frank Walker
Phil’s Deli on 5th
Frank Walker stepped into his favorite deli, his mind occupied with one single thought, Pastrami on dark rye, extra kraut. The restaurant was crowded for its small size but very quiet. Frank glanced at the other patrons sitting two or three to a table, sensing something was wrong but not able to put his finger on the reason. The normal hustle and bustle of the early lunch crowd was usually abuzz with individual conversation. This felt more like he had just walked into a mausoleum during a burial.
He saw the man with the gun as he approached the counter and suddenly everything became clear. The obvious tension and utter lack of conversation added up to one thing. Robbery in Progress. The pistol the short, wiry Hispanic man held was a small, silver automatic. For an instant, Frank could almost understand his daughter’s fascination with firearms. It was an elegant, finely crafted weapon, but when the man swung the small gun’s muzzle his direction, it lost any semblance of beauty.
Frank froze in place as his heart threatened to bang out of his chest. He looked around the small seating area again, taking in the terror-stricken faces and cursed himself for not seeing them the first time. He faced forward again searching for Phil, the 68-year-old man who owned the establishment and whom he considered a very close acquaintance, if not a friend. Phil was leaning forward with his fists against the counter, facing the gunman, his veins bulging, and his face the color of a beet. He looked pissed, too pissed to be afraid.
All the sudden, the intense quiet was replaced by an explosion of noise. The gunman shouted for Frank to get his fucking hands up! A woman screamed as the thief kicked a chair over, someone else was sobbing and another wailed loudly that they were all going to die.
Frank put his hands up as instructed and moved reluctantly in the direction the gunman gestured. There was nothing else to do but comply. This realization both sickened and angered him.
As Frank moved to the right of the narrow area he noticed a woman lying on the floor behind an overturned table, a small hole in the center of her chest. A young boy knelt in the growing pool of the woman’s blood, clutching her lifeless hand and crying quietly. Frank adjusted his course so he was between the gunman and the boy. The boy met his eyes and Frank flinched at what he saw. Not fear but the sorrow of loss; a sorrow larger than the boy, larger than Frank. There was a question on the young boy’s face, why did this happen? Frank felt a wave of dizziness come over him. He wanted to know why this was happening also. What made this man with a gun think he could take this mother from her boy? What right did he have to terrorize these people?
He tore his eyes from the boy’s and when he looked again at the gunman, something odd happened. The menacing monster had vanished and was replaced by a twitchy, pathetic piece of human trash. Suddenly he felt the way Phil looked, pissed to the point of doing something stupid.
The robber must have sensed he was in danger of losing control of the situation because he started screaming at Frank in Spanish, jamming the gun violently in his direction. Without knowing what he was going to do but sure it was something stupid, Frank took a step toward the madman.
The small voice of the boy with the dead mother spoke from behind him, “Don’t, Mister, he’ll shoot you too.” Frank’s eyes narrowed, his fists clenched. If he’d had any doubts about doing something to stop this from happening to anyone else here, those thoughts vanished at the sound of the child’s voice.
He took another step in the gunman’s direction and reached for a chair. The gunman leveled the gun at Frank.
Three deafening shots rang out as Frank heaved the chair at the thief. Frank staggered back, grabbing at his chest. The chair connected with the gunman who, for some reason, appeared to be falling forward. The impact of the heavy industrial wood and plastic chair shoved him back against the counter. Frank held his hands out in front of him, marveling at the lack of pain he felt and, a heartbeat later, at the lack of blood on his hands. Not even a fleck.
His ears still rang from the gun blasts but now he could hear the screaming of the other patrons. Some of the people ran from the Deli, some stayed put, hands covering their ears, eyes slammed shut while a couple just stared at the gunman sitting on the floor, propped against the counter. Frank was staring at him too, waiting for him to move or get up. The thief coughed twice and Frank saw the frothy blood between his lips. He slumped over on his side, leaving an arch of bloody smears across the counter base.
Frank looked up and spotted Phil standing very still behind the counter, gripping a gun that looked to him like a handheld cannon, a thin tendril of smoke still oozing from the barrel.
“Phil, are you okay?” he finally asked. He turned around without waiting for an answer and looked for the boy. He still sat beside his mother, blank-faced and staring at the dead gunman. He went to the boy, took him up in his arms and turned back to Phil.
“Phil….”
“I shot him,” Phil said, lowering his gun to the counter. Frank looked around at the people left in the Deli and asked everyone to go outside and wait for the police to show up. Slowly they got to their feet and trudged out the doors.
“Come on, Phil, you too,” he said and took the boy out behind the others, out into the light.
Day 2, Late Morning
Detective John Hernandez
Phil’s Deli on 5th
Detective John Hernandez stood inside the small deli, surveying the aftermath of yet another robbery attempt gone horribly wrong. Sprawled under an upset table, the body of a female stared up at him through partially closed eyes. A Stormtrooper action figure lay in the dead woman’s congealed blood, its white armor in stark contrast against the crimson pool.
Glancing at the responding officer’s report he read: Victim. Female. Age: 36. Name:—he skimmed the rest. ‘Bullet entered abdomen of victim… also present,
son, age 7, witness with no apparent injuries’… only for the rest of his life, he thought and handed the report back to the officer.
A stainless-steel revolver sat on top of the counter near a cash register, the muzzle sooty from recent firing. Slumped against the counter on the floor was another body, a male and presumably the suspect. Two dead, one of which was the perpetrator. Well, at least there was that.
Hernandez stepped carefully through the crime scene allowing his trained eye to collect each minute detail of evidence. Broken drinkware, a purse with its contents scattered, a smashed cellphone, and half-eaten food crushed and stomped underfoot. He thought of it as the clutter of carnage and it littered the floor of the modest deli.
As he approached the dead suspect, he noted three ragged gunshot wounds in the center of the man’s chest. Exit wounds, shot in the back. This might cause some trouble for the old deli owner. As so often happened, the law-abiding citizen found themselves defending their actions against the criminals and their blood-sucking lawyers.
With a gloved hand, Detective Hernandez picked up the small automatic beside the would-be robber. Walther PPK, .380 ACP. Nice engraving, gold inlay, and not a scratch on it. He thought he recognized it as something James Bond would carry in the old movies his mother watched.
Not the good James Bond. No, she liked the Sean Connery and Roger Moore versions. Not enough action for Hernandez’ tastes. It was a nice piece, even if it was only a cute little popgun. Too nice, in fact, for a street punk. It was probably stolen.
Returning the weapon to its place on the floor near the suspect’s hand, he felt the usual unease. If fifteen years’ experience with the Phoenix P.D. taught him anything, it was that you never leave a weapon close to someone you knew to be a threat. This particular threat had ceased to be a danger to anyone, but it never hurt to be sure.
John raised a hand to the man’s neck, feeling for a pulse. Of course there was none. Nothing would survive with those three tunnels punched through heart and lungs.
He started to stand, his eyes moving over the dead man’s face. From his peripheral view he caught a quick blur of movement where the dead man’s hand lay, so very close to the weapon.
JESUS! He jumped up, taking two steps back, his nerves clamoring as his hand fumbled for his weapon. Heart thudding, perspiration popping out all over his skin, he steadied himself as he aimed at the dead man.
What in God’s name…? The man was obviously dead and gone. Seeing things, he wondered? He looked closer at the man’s hand lying in a pool of coagulating blood. A dark red drag mark in the shape of a hand ran across the white linoleum, as if the man had reached for him as he had knelt beside him.
Hernandez was taking no chances. He took a few steps forward and using his shoe, moved the firearm away from the body. He inspected the small drag marks in the blood again, wondering if someone had tampered with the body.
He saw the hand had clearly been moved, evident by the marks, and noted some strange curved lines where the suspect’s bloody fingers had rested. But that’s not quite right.
Bending closer to the marks he tried to make sense of what he was seeing, but not recognizing. And then it clicked. It wasn’t where the fingers had rested that left the bloody prints, but what a finger had written. Shifting for a better angle, he saw scrawled there, in the dead man’s blood, the words, El Evento.
Taking a pen and notepad from his jacket pocket, Hernandez jotted down the words.
Stepping around the partition he found the other firearm on the countertop beside the cash register. The register drawer was open and leaking bills; a stuffed paper bag lay on the floor.
Detective Hernandez inwardly scratched his head. Why didn’t the guy leave if he was going to get the money? Why shoot the woman? This wasn’t adding up. He needed to talk to the witnesses and more importantly, to the citizen shooter.
Day 2, Afternoon
Frank Walker
Phoenix Police Station
Frank Walker sat in the police station interrogation room, a cup of bad coffee on his left, a pen and his five-sheet statement on his right. He looked at his watch; he’d been writing for over an hour and waiting for the better part of 30 minutes.
The door opened and a large, well-dressed Hispanic man entered with a file in hand. He walked toward Frank with an outstretched hand and introduced himself.
“I’m Detective Hernandez, Mr. Walker. Thank you for your cooperation and your time. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Sure. And it’s Frank.”
“All right, Frank then. Approximately what time did you enter ‘Phil’s Deli on 5th’?”
“Well, it was about 11:00 AM maybe a few minutes after,” Frank said.
As Hernandez wrote on a pad of paper inside the file, Frank took the opportunity to ask the Detective if Phil was ok and what would happen to him. Frank was no legal expert, but he knew enough about it to worry that his friend might be in a little trouble for shooting a man in the back, even if the other man was armed himself and in the act of committing numerous felonies.
Nowadays, good people seemed to be persecuted for owning and using firearms for personal protection. His daughter Jessica constantly told him horror stories about people’s rights being infringed upon by an overly-zealous, agenda-driven legal system. He just never thought he or someone he personally knew would become one of those stories.
The Detective stopped writing and looked up at Frank, “If you’ll bear with me, Mr. Walker, uh, Frank, I will try to answer all your questions after I take your statement. How long have you known Phillip Dunn?”
Frank thought about it, “I’d say near fifteen years. I was one of his first customers the day he opened. Just driving by and in need of a good sandwich. That ever happen to you, Detective?”
“Not that I recall, Mr. Walker. Have you spent time with Mr. Dunn other than at his establishment?”
“No, can’t say I have,” Frank said, taking a sip of the rapidly cooling coffee.
“What about your daughter, Jessica Walker?”
Frank almost spit coffee across the table when he heard his daughter’s name. “What? What in the world are you asking me about Jessica for? Is she all right?” Frank was visibly shaken; nothing could have shocked him more about this day than to have his daughter’s name brought up during a police interview.
“There is no need to be alarmed, Mr. Walker. Would you like another cup of coffee? It may help settle your nerves,” the Detective asked, starting to rise.
“I don’t want any more of your damn coffee, I want you to tell me what’s going on!” Frank pounded a fist on the table.
Hernandez took Walker to be in his mid-fifties, and in superb shape for a man his age, although he dressed in such a way that his physique wasn’t obvious. He must have been incredibly strong to have so thoroughly crushed the robber’s ribs with one swing of a chair.
Until now, Frank’s manner had been docile but forced, and Hernandez sensed an edge to the man; a hidden den of snakes that made him wonder what the man was capable of if someone were to stir him up.
“Mr. Walker, please calm down. I only have a few more questions for you and then you can go.”
Walker took his seat again but Hernandez could tell he had touched a nerve. Good, he thought. Maybe now we will get to the bottom of this.
Hernandez continued, “I interviewed Mr. Dunn at length and discovered the weapon he used against the assailant was purchased from your daughter, Miss Walker. Were you aware of this, Mr. Walker?”
Frank clenched the edge of the table. He didn’t know about the handgun and didn’t know that Jess had ever talked to Phil outside the Deli. Anger flashed through him. He knew she harped on things like this all the time, constantly telling people they need to arm themselves and to take responsibility for their own safety.
Now she'd really gotten herself mixed up in some serious stuff. A thousand thoughts flooded his mind. Did she break some law selling Phil that gun? Will it affect her
that it was used to kill someone? Would he be able to protect her?
Instead, Frank simply said, “No, I wasn’t aware of that.” Hernandez scribbled on his notepad.
“Is Miss Walker your only child?” He watched Frank closely as he waited for an answer.
“Yes,” he said and stood, “I’m done talking about my daughter, Detective. You have my statement, if there are any other questions, you have my number. If those questions are about my daughter, you’ll have to talk to her.”
Hernandez stood also, “Mr. Walker, I just have a few more questions—”
Frank held his hand up to silence the Detective. “It’s all in my statement.”
He walked to the door and reached for the knob.
“Frank,” Hernandez said, “Did the suspect say anything to you?” Frank paused at the door.
“Yeah. He told me to get my effing hands up.”
Hernandez nodded. “Did he say anything to you in Spanish?”
Frank turned and faced him. “Like I wrote in my statement, he yelled something in Spanish but I don’t speak the lingo and don’t know what he said.”
Hernandez shuffled through a folder and pulled out Mr. Dunn’s statement. Skimming over the first page, he found what he was looking for. “Did it sound like ‘El final esta aqui. El principo esta cerca’?”
Frank nodded. “That could have been it. Like I said, I don’t speak the language.” He turned back to the door and then faced the Detective again. “What does it mean, anyway?”
Detective Hernandez’ brow furrowed. “It means ‘The end is here. The beginning is near.’ Does that mean anything to you?”
“No. Should it?”
Hernandez shook his head. “You’ll be at this address tonight if we have any more questions?”
Frank nodded and walked through the door.
Day 2, Night
Richard “Dick” Cropp
Dick’s U-Store-It
Dick Cropp stood in the doorway of his office at the U-Store-It public storage lot, staring out at the night. It was full of eyes; green winking orbs that reminded him of giant fireflies.