Urban Justice

by John Etzil

  Even drunken Bobby, a can of Old Milwaukee beer in his raised hand and a second unopened one in his back pocket, managed to yell over to her between chugs, “I love you, Debbie.”

  I wasn’t sure if that made her feel better or worse, or if she even heard it, but it made me smile. I often teased her about how she flaunted her physical perfection to fatten up her tip jar, how she was like a high-class ho that managed to get money even though she kept her clothes on, which more often than not led to a stiff elbow in the ribs, but tonight’s show of compassion from the Summit folk made me promise to myself that if she pulled through, I’d never look down on her tip-gathering skills again.

  54

  This was becoming a comical habit. The two stiffs in their navy Ford Taurus pulled into my driveway, stepped out, complete with cheap suits and sunglasses, and walked up to my front door. I recognized the first agent from his last visit and decided to be nice to him. I opened the door before they stepped up on my porch and didn’t even point my gun at them this time. “Morning, gentlemen. How can I help you?”

  The first agent took off his sunglasses and introduced himself. “FBI. Special Agent Leo Kennedy.” He flashed his ID.

  I nodded and smiled. “Yes, I remember you from your last visit.”

  “And this is Agent Russel Blake. We’d like to have a word with you.”

  I nodded to the younger agent, who was slightly overweight and struck me as being hungover. “Sure, come on in.”

  I walked them to the kitchen table, each one keeping an eye on Saber, who was watching them from the living room. He sat there, his back to the fireplace, and didn’t move a muscle. He was the staredown king, never breaking eye contact with Agent Blake, who was closest to me.

  Buddy came running up and jumped on Agent Kennedy, almost knocking him over. I went through the motions of a good dog owner and chastised him, but in my mind, I fantasized about Agent Kennedy backpedaling in a panic, right out the front door, falling down the porch stairs and landing with a splat in the mud. Childish of me, I admit it.

  I offered them drinks, which they declined, so we got down to business. “So what can I do for you?”

  We spoke for a while, Saber’s stoic gaze shifting from one man to the other as they took turns speaking. They asked me if I knew anything about the Newburgh gang violence. I answered no, that I had enough to keep me busy here and I didn’t follow the news. They asked about my flying experience, and I offered them both a ride in my Cessna, but for some strange reason they declined. Sheesh. Who turns down a free ride in an airplane?

  They seemed very curious about how Cosmo and his gang of dead men had wound up at the Red Barn. I told them I had no clue, but that the New York State Troopers—“Now there’s a real law enforcement agency for you”—were investigating, and I was sure that they’d get to the bottom of this.

  We bantered back and forth, and Agent Kennedy commented that they’d received an anonymous package that contained a laptop with a bunch of passwords. The laptop was from an ex-CIA agent, now missing and presumed on the run, and contained custom-built software that was used to track the breast and butt implants of hundreds of unsuspecting women. The FBI was making arrests on an almost daily basis because of it, everyone from rich husbands to crooked doctors. I appeared shocked, in mouth-open disbelief that people could do such an awful thing, then nodded my congratulations and stood up to offer them the door.

  I stood in the doorway and watched them drive away. Debbie came walking out of our bedroom, steadying herself with a hand against the wall. She still had minor bouts of dizzy spells, courtesy of her concussion from when Cosmo had knocked her out when he’d slammed the butt of his shotgun into her chin. A nice scab had formed along the entire width of her chin, about a half inch wide. It was disgusting, yet beautiful. Much prettier than a bullet hole.

  She’d whacked her head on one of the bar fridges on the way down, and if that wasn’t enough, she’d face-planted and broken her nose. It was the perfect trifecta of pain. I didn’t know which blow was worse, having not seen any of them occur, but between the three, she’d suffered a serious concussion.

  Much to my relief, she was past the danger point, but she still looked she’d been hit by a Mack truck. I couldn’t help but smile, though, because I got to take a few weeks off to take care of her in my house. I’d been trying to get her to move in with me for a while now, but she’d always resisted. A few words from the doc had spelled out the conditions of her release from the hospital. “You can stay at Jack’s, or you can stay here. What would you like to do?” That had changed her reluctance to cohabitate.

  Between my expert culinary and nursing skills, Buddy’s youthful exuberance, and Saber’s unyielding loyalty, I think we might be winning her over.

  Epilogue

  Rodney milked his gunshot recovery for three months before he was forced to go back to work. His Coolmax II vest had worked as advertised, and other than a deep bruise that made him wince every time he took a breath, he was fine.

  Bobby still woos my Debbie every chance he gets, but deep down, I know that he knows he has a better chance of hitting Lotto every day for a month straight than winning over my Debbie.

  Frances, Max, and Gus still go to the Red Barn every night, although they claim it’s not the same now that Debbie and I haven’t been there as much while Debbie recovers. Max and Gus still play pool, their single dollar’s worth of quarters lasting them most of the night. Frances still reeks a lot of havoc on unsuspecting men at the bar, and the three walk home arm in arm and do what I’m working hard to forget that she told me.

  Harold went back to the Marines and was recently deployed to the Middle East as part of a forward recon/sniper team. He and Debbie had long tactical talks about sniping on numerous occasions before he shipped out, so I knew that he’d rack up a lot of kills. I was almost envious…

  Agent Kennedy sent me an article that he clipped from the New York Times. It was an investigative journalism piece on the sickos that secretly implanted GPS tracking devices in their wives’ breast and butt implants to keep tabs on them. He was credited with blowing the case wide open, and received numerous awards. Everybody from the FBI to the Girl Scouts applauded his diligence in getting to the bottom of it.

  Silent But Deadly Aces went by the wayside. With no Cosmo present to keep things running with an iron fist, the remaining gang members went out on their own, each grabbing a street corner to ply their ugly trade. Every once in a while, one of them was shot with a Remington 700, but before the taillights of the medical examiner’s van disappeared, a new dealer showed up and staked his claim on the corner.

  Some charitable soul bought the Bailey Street heroin house and turned it into a public basketball court. After he tore the house down. After he dug up the entire backyard. After he discovered multiple suitcases full of moldy hundred-dollar bills.

  Cobleskill has four banks, and you should see the faces of the tellers when I made my weekly walk into each one with five thousand dollars in stinky hundreds and asked them to swap them out for some fresh ones. The first three or four times, it was funny. After about the thirtieth time, not so much…

  Frankie kept in touch with Debbie, despite her worldly travels. Funny how the two of them formed a bit of a friendship through it all. Not enough to have her over for dinner and drinks, mind you, but hey, a guy can dream.

  After Debbie recovered to the point where she was cleared by the doc to travel, we flew down to Key West for a week of debauchery on Duvall Street. Thank God Hurricane Irma left the bars intact.

  Catherine stayed home to look after Buddy and Saber. We’re not sure what the future holds for her, but she’s doing well at taking one day at a time in recovery. She’s even learned to smile at me. Once in a while. I think the stacks of clean hundred-dollar bills that I toss at her on her birthday, Christmas, Thanksgiving, when there’s a full moon, etc., have helped.

  FREE Preview; Fatal Justice Chapter 1

  I killed an FBI agent la
st week.

  I had nothing personal against the agent and I wasn’t proud of what I’d done, but it wasn’t my fault.

  It wasn’t like in Hollywood, where the FBI storms into an arrest situation, everyone sporting one of those dark blue windbreakers with FBI stamped across the back in big white letters so large that a guy could read ’em from two blocks away.

  Nor did the dead agent come screeching up in a cloud of tire smoke along with twenty other dark-windowed SUVs and jump out with a megaphone, announcing their arrival.

  None of that really mattered though, because I was put in a position where I had no choice.

  Fatal Justice Chapter 2

  I was hanging out in my favorite bar, the Red Barn. Yeah, I know, corny name, but it was a red barn, built in the late 1800s and located on Route 10 at Charlotte Valley Road in the quaint little town of Summit.

  Sometime around the turn of the century, the owner of the red barn had decided to throw in some light fixtures, add running water and a toilet, install an oven to warm up finger food, and build a bar close to the front door so you could grab a stool and get drunk as soon as you walked in. Not much else to do on a Friday night in upstate New York.

  A three-songs-for-a-quarter jukebox sat between the sawdust-covered shuffleboard table and the lone restroom, belting out country tunes on a crackling speaker. “Elvira” and Garth Brooks having friends in low places were the two most popular. If it happened to be a holiday weekend, there was usually a live band playing, and “Elvira” and Garth Brooks having friends in low places were the two most requested songs. What can I say? Summit had its share of simpletons.

  The locals drank beer and danced to their favorite songs until they were too drunk to move. Come closing time, they’d stagger and weave their way home, most of ’em staying on their side of the faded double yellow line that ran down the center of Route 10. It wasn’t pretty, but that’s all we had in our quiet little town, so we were happy to have it.

  “Can I freshen that up for you?” the bartender asked. She looked at me with those sultry almond-shaped eyes, courtesy of her Japanese mother, that made me melt every time she made eye contact with me. I felt knee-wobbling weak around her, but I thought I did a good job of hiding it.

  “Nah, I’m good for now. Think I’ll play a little pool, though. Can I get some quarters?” I whipped out a five and handed it across the bar to Debbie. She sauntered over to the cash register and I admired the snug fit of her Levi’s. I didn’t bother raising my eyes or killing my grin when she turned around and came back with my night’s worth of pool table money. She was used to me undressing her with my eyes, so she didn’t bother to comment. Her sly smirk said it all.

  She placed the quarters on the bar in front of me. “Good luck at the pool table,” she said. “Those guys look like players to me.” She gestured over to Max and Gus, the two old men that were smacking the balls around the beer-stained pool table as if they were playing bocce ball. “I wouldn’t play them for money if I were you.”

  They were at least two times my forty-three years, but they moved pretty well and still had a bright sparkle in their eyes. Ice-cold beer worked wonders.

  “Yeah, thanks. If I lose my pickup truck to them, I’ll be counting on you to give me a lift home.”

  “Oh, I’m taking you home anyway, unless Frances over there gets to you first.” She turned to the other end of the bar and waved, her arms swinging overhead like she was waving off an errant F-18 that was attempting to land on the deck of the USS Stennis on a stormy night.

  I looked over and there she was. My number one fan. She must have been pushing ninety-five, but goddamn, she still drank whiskey by the shot glass. She sat ramrod straight on her barstool and sucked on a Marlboro Red. At least she’d switched from those filterless Lucky Strikes.

  She caught me looking over at her and winked at me, an exaggerated gesture that looked like she was having a stroke. Oh, jeez. She waved and called over to me. I cringed, praying she wouldn’t lose her balance and fall off of her stool.

  “Sheriff Joe, come drink with me.” She raised her glass and smiled. “I’m buying.”

  Sheriff Joe retired a few years ago. Nice enough guy, but aside from being about a foot shorter than me, sporting a walrus mustache that complemented his combover, and carrying around a gut twice as big as mine, he looked just like me.

  Ever the polite civil servant, I grinned back and raised my mug. We made eye contact through the smoky haze, and her toothless grin widened to the point of nausea. Ugh. She had probably been attractive sixty years ago, but old age and dementia didn’t excite me like they used to, so I kept my distance from her.

  She was nothing if she wasn’t persistent. If I had a dime for every time she grabbed my ass when I made my way to the restroom, I could’ve retired. I swear she took the stool at the end of the bar every night so that she could reach out and touch all the men that walked by her to get to the restroom or the jukebox. Or the ones who just happened to be unlucky enough to walk past her before being warned about the Frances Fondle.

  I shook my head and turned back to Debbie. She was grinning like the cat who ate the canary.

  “Thanks for that. I owe you one.”

  “Sure. Anytime.” She blew me a kiss, flashed her killer smile, and went off to pour a drink for one of her many fans who spent their nights across the bar from her, getting drunk and savoring the eye candy. Everybody loved Debbie. I couldn’t blame them. What’s not to like about a beautiful woman who laughed at all of your drunken one-liners?

  Okay. I admit it. When we first started dating, I was a bit jealous at all the attention she received from the male patrons, but I’d grown and I was mature enough to handle it. Sometimes.

  We’d been dating on and off for over a year and had talked about moving in together, but neither of us were ready for that, so we killed that idea. My hesitation was from some past relationship baggage, along with a few other issues I had. Nothing major, but they still needed to be addressed before the start of cohabitation.

  I wasn’t sure what her reluctance to live with me stemmed from. We enjoyed each other’s company and got along great. Most of the time. We had many mutual interests. Hiking, working out, the great outdoors, dark beer, red wine, gin, whiskey, relaxing with a good book in front of a warm fire on a cold night, Barry White, love of animals, especially dogs. And hot sex. Man, did we light up the planet.

  That wasn’t enough for her, though. Maybe it was the age difference, me being ten years her senior? I don’t know. I’m almost six foot six inches and still in great shape. Not as good as when I played basketball at Notre Dame, but still better looking naked than most men half my age. I silently toasted Arnold Schwarzenegger, whom I’d idolized growing up. He’d turned me on to weight training when I was just a kid, and man, does that pay huge dividends. I flexed my pecs, just ’cause I can, and drank some beer.

  Maybe Debbie was thinking longer term? As in, when she’s turns seventy, I’ll be eighty? Perhaps, but damn if we weren’t smoking hot together right now. Have I mentioned that? After a glass of red wine and a little Barry White, she looked at me with a sultriness that all my pole dancer friends combined couldn’t equal.

  I looked at her one last time before heading over to play some pool, and I regretted it right away. A drunk named Bobby was leaning across the bar, a dirty hand cupped tight to her ear, no doubt whispering something inappropriate. I saw her lean away and laugh right before I rolled my eyes. Jeez.

  She played along like a good bartender, and guys like Bobby always left her a big tip before stumbling home, flopping into bed with their flannel shirts and jeans still on, and wet-dreaming of my Debbie.

  I grabbed my beer and walked over to the pool table.

  “Evening, gentlemen.” I placed a dollar’s worth of quarters next to the money slot.

  “Howdy, Sheriff Jack. How’s business?”

  “Nice and slow, just the way I like it.” I raised my glass and silently toasted the lack of
criminal activity in our neck of the woods. Lots of folks think that being a sheriff in a peaceful no-stoplight town would be boring. They’d be right. But I’ve had enough excitement for two lifetimes, so I’m perfectly fine with my simple existence.

  Mary Sue came over to me, put down her serving tray, and gave me a big hug. “How’s my favorite sheriff?” Her mom, Meredith, and I have known each other ever since we went to Richmondville High School together more years ago than I cared to count. Spitting image of her mom, too. A little taller, about five-ten, curvy, dirty-blond hair, and a warm smile that invited everyone into her circle.

  “Wow, it’s great to see you.” I grinned and gave her a fatherly hug. “How’ve you been? How’s college?”

  “Good. Eh, it’s okay.” She shrugged.

  “Boys treating you well?”

  “Heck yeah, once I tell them that my Uncle Joe’s a sheriff.” She loved digging on me about Frances’s inability to remember my name.

  “That’s good. Tell ’em about my gun collection too.” I winked at her.

  “Oh, don’t worry, I do.”

  “Mom and dad good?”

  “Yeah, they’re fine. They just left for their annual Florida jaunt.”

  “Key West?”

  “Yep, fisherman’s paradise. You know my dad and his fishing.”

  “Yeah, I do. Kindred spirits, he and I.”

  Stuart is a well-known cardiac surgeon and works in Albany, a fifty-mile trek up Route 88. They live in a spacious but modest two-story colonial on over sixty acres that adjoin Clapper Hollow State Forest. When he’s not mending broken hearts, he’s planning his next fishing trip to the Keys.

  “That’s true,” she said. She smirked and turned a little snarky on me. “He’s almost as bad as you and your hunting trips.”

  “Hey, don’t be jealous now. Just ’cause I pack up my rifles every summer and fly all over the place killing ferocious animals, that doesn’t make me a bad person. At least I feed the needy.” I raised my mug and toasted my annual meat donations to the local food banks.