“I was just passing by,” said Flint.
“Why don’t you ‘just pass by’ somewhere else then?”
“It’s not what you think, I didn’t mean any harm. They just...they remind me of another time.”
“You have kids?”
“No. Kind of wanted one, but...opportunity wasn’t there.”
“Imagine it was. And then imagine how you would feel if you saw your daughter talking to some strange old guy.”
“That’s what I’ve been doing the entire time,” said Flint. “Sorry to have bothered you, sister. I didn’t mean anything by it, honest. I’ll leave you folks alone now.”
“Don’t let me catch you around here again,” said the nun. “If I do, I’ll be forced to call the police. We have an understanding, Mister?”
“Clear as the day is long.” Flint tipped an invisible hat towards her. “Have a good one.” As he turned away from the orphanage, he drew out a cigarillo placed it between his lips. A cheap lighter ignited the tip.
Puffing on the rolled tobacco leaves, Flint thought about that day. Six years, he could hardly believe it had been that long. Six years since his last job. Since the last time he sold a piece of his soul for some money that ended up being squandered.
But with some more cash, could he make up for the past? He already knew he couldn’t buy back his soul. But maybe, just maybe, he could sell what was left in order to make things right.
***
Flint eyed the target, lining it up with the barrel of the revolver. He squeezed the trigger six times rapidly, firing off shot after shot. The gun’s chamber snapped open and he emptied the shell casings into his palm. He held the switch on the wall, bringing the target back towards him and examined it.
A row of perfect shots, from the forehead down the neck. Flint removed the target and hooked up a fresh one. He held the switch again and the target moved back along the track of the target range, as far as he could take it. Flint opened the chamber and loaded six fresh new bullets then snapped it shut.
Lining up the barrel once more, he fired off another six rapid shots. After holding the switch, he removed the target and placed it over the first one. Not only did he have a row of perfect shots on both targets, but they even lined up perfectly when compared to each other.
“Goddammit...” he muttered to himself.
NOW
Tanya Cruz found herself wandering the beach after night had fallen. At this time of night, the beach was empty, and she enjoyed the sound of the waves gently breaking against the shore, her toes sinking into the soft sand, the only light provided by the full moon.
Usually, she was the only one out here. So she was more than a little surprised to see a man sitting near the water. As she came closer, she recognized him as the stranger in town. Usually only came out to visit a local bar. He had a bottle in one hand and held something else in the other. On her approach, he snapped to attention and she realized what the other hand held.
A gun. And now it was pointed right at her.
“I’m sorry!” she said. “Please don’t...”
Joe hesitated for a moment and then lowered his weapon. “My fault.”
Tanya considered turning back but instead she moved closer to him. “You are the one they call Old Man Joe?”
“Am I?” he asked as he took a sip from the bottle.
“Yes.” She moved a little closer, still weary of his firearm. “Why do you have a gun with you?”
“Had a run-in with some people earlier tonight. Thought they may try and come around for some payback.”
“Suárez’s men?”
Joe nodded and offered her the bottle. “Care for a drink?”
“No thank you, I’m fine.”
“More for me.”
“What brings you out here, Mr. Joe?”
“Just Joe is fine. And I live a short walk from here.”
“I mean why are you in this town?”
Joe sipped more of the tequila. “Was in a bad situation back in the States. Needed to get away. So a...friend sent me here.”
“I see. May I sit?”
Joe nodded. Tanya sat down beside him, wrapping her arms around her legs. “Why did your friend choose this town?”
“Said I wanted to get out of the country. Somewhere quiet. So he sent me here. Though I’m starting to think it’s not as quiet as I would’ve liked.”
“No, I think not. Your friend should have sent you somewhere else.”
“I’m sure he had his reasons. He always does.” Perhaps because he realized there was no threat, he slid the gun into a holster strapped to his leg, fastening a strap over the hilt. “What’s your name?”
“Tanya.”
“Nice name.”
“Thank you,” she said. “What about your family?”
“Don’t got any.”
Tanya tilted her head slightly. “No one?”
“Was married once. But that was a long time ago.”
“What happened?”
“She left me.”
“Oh...I’m sorry.”
Joe offered no response to that, just took another swig from his bottle.
“May I ask why?”
“I made a choice. Thought I was doing the right thing. She didn’t see it the same way. So she left.”
“And do you still think your choice was the right one?” asked Tanya.
“Dunno. You try to do what you think is right, but you never know for certain. And Lord knows I’ve made my fair share of wrong choices. One of ‘em’s what got me down here.”
“And what was that?”
Joe stood and began to walk up the beach. Tanya watched him go, unsure of why. “I’m sorry, did I offend you?”
“No. Just...you don’t wanna know what I did.”
“Does it have anything to do with that gun?”
Joe sighed, glancing down at the holster. “Got everything to do with it. You should go on home, now. It’s getting late.”
“If I come back again, you’ll be out here?” asked Tanya.
He didn’t answer, just walked off. Tanya watched him go until he seemed to vanish in the darkness.
***
The house wasn’t very big. Just one bedroom, a kitchen and a living room. Inside the living room, Joe took notice of the long case standing upright on one end. He walked over to it and laid it down flat, opening it up. Inside was a saxophone of dulled silver. His hands brushed over it and then went to a small compartment in the case. Inside were some reeds and a cleaning swap. As well as a photograph of a young girl.
When Carl Flint decided to leave America, he took only half the money Dante had given him. The other half was to be put in a trust fund for a girl named Sarah. A girl he made an orphan because of his own recklessness.
Now he was living here in this small town on the west coast of Mexico. He didn’t know anyone, not really. Had avoided as much contact with the locals as he could. When he told Dante he wanted to go somewhere quiet, the power broker told him this was the place. Set him up with the identity of Joe Lawrence, a retired insurance salesman.
Dante never did anything without a reason. And so Flint felt the need to always keep his revolvers with him whenever he left the house. He had no problems for six months, until tonight. Which justified his paranoia.
Flint placed the photograph back in the compartment and found himself staring at the saxophone. He hadn’t tried playing since the night he met Julie Kim. Outlaw Blues was left to Mickey, although Flint had no idea if it was still open. He doubted it, though. It was only because of the money Flint had put away that he was able to survive with keeping it open.
Also in the compartment was something else. A plain, gold wedding ring. Flint wrapped his fingers around it and thought of his ex-wife. Part of him wondered where Melissa was now. If she had ever remarried.
He told himself he didn’t care and dropped the ring back inside the compartment. Flint closed the case and stood. He discarded his coat, letting it fall to
the floor. The gun belts came next, the weight of the revolvers causing them to crash down. Picking up the bottle, he sat in the old, beat-up chair. A few more swigs and the bottle reached its halfway point.
That was around the time he passed out.
***
Flint was awakened by a hand slapping him upside the head. He reached his hand to rub the spot, although the hangover was the source of most of the pain.
“Morning, gringo.”
The voice. It was one from the previous night. Flint finally opened his eyes and looked to see the three men from before. The long-haired one held one of Flint’s revolvers, looking at it in appreciation. The bearded man was rummaging through the cupboards in the kitchen, finding nothing but canned goods and bottles of liquor.
And the bald one, he now stood in front of Flint. His butterfly knife was already in hand.
“Remember me?” he asked.
“Trying hard not to,” said Flint.
“You made us look like fools, cabron. We don’t take that lightly.”
“Funny, my lack of caring,” said Flint. “If you boys don’t mind, I’ve got a pretty massive hangover. And you’re trespassing.”
“That’s what we are here to talk to you about, Señor Lawrence.”
This was a new voice. Flint peered over his shoulder and saw a heavy-set man with a clean-shaven face. He was dressed in a uniform, complete with a badge.
“I am Sheriff Reyes. And I’m here to give you a warning. About what we do not tolerate in my town. These men have a grievance with you. They say you opened fire on them.”
“You can trust me on this, Sheriff,” began Flint. “If I wanted any of these men dead, they’d already be dead.”
“We do not tolerate vigilantes here,” said Reyes.
“But you do tolerate thugs extorting a man’s business?” asked Flint.
“Boys,” said Reyes. The three grunts looked at the Sheriff and he jerked his thumb towards the door. “I would like to have a word with our new friend.”
The bearded man was first out the door. The long-haired one aimed the gun at Flint and made a “pow” noise before dropping it and following behind. The bald one was last, taking a long, hard look at the man before closing up the knife and leaving as well.
Sheriff Reyes closed the door behind them and then sat on an old couch near Flint’s chair. He took out a cigarette and lit it.
“I don’t recall giving you permission to smoke in my house, Sheriff.”
Reyes chuckled a little. “Yes, I’m aware of that.”
“What do you want?” asked Flint.
“I want to give you fair warning, my friend. These men, they are not the kind of men you want on your bad side. You have been here for a few months, yes?”
“Six.”
“Six months, that’s right.” Reyes leaned back in the couch and patted his belly. “In that time, you haven’t caused trouble. You’ve kept to yourself, stayed out of affairs that don’t concern you. And if you’d like my advice, you should continue to do that. We don’t like troublemakers here.”
“Not unless they’re giving you a kick-back.”
Anger was evident in Reyes’ eyes. “You should be careful of what you say, Señor Lawrence. You are dangerously close to making some very serious accusations.”
“Mind if I have one of those cigarettes?”
“Of course, where are my manners?” Reyes held the open pack and Flint drew a cigarette from it. As he held it between his lips, Reyes lit the tip with a cheap lighter.
Flint let the smoke fill his lungs slowly before exhaling the remainder. “I don’t wanna cause trouble, Sheriff.”
“That’s good,” said Reyes. “So I trust I will not hear any more about you?”
“Long as my hand isn’t forced,” said Flint. “Long as those boys stay on good behavior.”
Reyes leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “And just what do you think of yourself?”
Flint paused and took a drag on the cigarette. “Not sure I follow.”
“Well, you are not a police officer. I would know if you were. So what gives you the right to assault our citizens?”
“Funny, didn’t know the cops had the right to assault citizens.”
“I would watch my tone if I were you.”
“Be thankful you’re not me.”
“I do,” said Reyes. “I just wanted to pay you a visit to let you know that I’ll be watching you, my friend.” He stood from the couch.
“Sheriff, before you go, I’ve got a question.”
“Of course. I’m here to serve the people.”
Flint leaned back in his chair. “Does Suárez pay you per task, or do you draw some sort of regular paycheck from him?”
“Señor Suárez is an upstanding member of our community. He has financed many local businesses,” said Reyes. “And you are a bitter old man who drinks too much and walks around with guns as if you are some sort of cowboy. So I wonder, which of you is a greater threat to my people?”
“Depends on who you mean when you say your people.”
“Have a good day, Señor Lawrence,” said Reyes. “For your sake, I hope this is the last time we meet.”
THEN
The Cobra Club was known as one of the most exclusive bars in the entire city. Situated at the top of a skyscraper in the downtown area, it had an enclosed area as well as an open terrace. On the terrace there sat a large pond with a gold statue of a cobra snake situated in the center.
A small band shell also stood on the terrace and the house band played a good jazz set every night. However, the Cobra Club frequently featured guest performances from all over the world.
Getting into the Cobra Club was difficult. The clientele consisted mostly of legacies, captains of industry, politicians and even those whose fortune came from less publicized means. To even pass through the door, a seven figure salary was a necessity and even then it wouldn’t guarantee service at the bar.
Carl Flint knew he had no business in a place like this, especially in a beat-up old leather duster, faded jeans, a wrinkled button-down shirt and sporting a five o’clock shadow. The bouncer knew this as well, a burly guy with the hair cut so close to his scalp he may as well have been bald and sporting a bushy mustache. He held his hand in front of Flint when he came up to the door.
“Where do you think you’re goin’, old timer?”
“Inside. I want a drink,” said Flint.
“There’s an Outback Steakhouse just down the street. Might be more your speed. Hear they got some specials tonight.”
“I said I wanted a drink, not watered-down piss. Now let me in.”
“Not gonna happen. Not on my watch. Place like this is too good for a beat-up sum bitch like you.”
“You’re workin’ my last nerve, kid.”
“Listen up, Pops, I don’t wanna hurt you. But that doesn’t mean I won’t. So get the hell outta my face or I’ll see to it you get some use outta your Medicare.”
“Nice speech,” said Flint as he placed a cigarillo between his lips. “Practice that on your daddy, fat boy?”
“Alright, now you’ve gone and pissed me off.” The bouncer threw a meaty fist and Flint sidestepped it. The bouncer turned and lunged forward again. Flint grabbed the bouncer’s arm and used the momentum to throw him against the wall. The sound of a cocking revolver and the feel of cold metal against the back of his skull caused the bouncer to freeze.
“Now I’m a damn good shot, son, even at my age. So at a range like this, there’s no chance in hell of me missin’ that wrinkled piece of trash you call a brain.”
“Kevin!”
Flint cautioned a half-glance over his shoulder and with his peripheral vision he caught sight of another man approaching. Once he saw this man, Flint stepped away from the bouncer and lowered his gun.
The man who approached him wore an immaculate white suit with a black shirt displaying a mandarin collar. His hair was short, silver, and neatly slicked back. His
skin appeared nicely tanned and his left eye was concealed behind a black patch. He appeared to be in his sixties but looked as if he could give any man in his twenties more than a fair fight.
“Kevin, I’ve half a mind to allow this gentleman here to put a bullet in your useless skull,” he said. “Lord knows you asked for it, you miserable bastard.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” said Kevin. “But this guy, he—”
“This gentleman is Carl Flint, an old friend of mine and he is welcome in my establishment whenever he sees fit. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes sir, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize to me, you imbecile. Apologize to the gentleman you manhandled.”
Kevin nodded and turned to Flint, his head hanging low and his eyes fixed on his shoes. “My apologies, sir. I didn’t know who you were.”
“Don’t let it happen again,” said Flint.
The man in white placed his hand on Flint’s shoulder. “Come on in, Carl. I believe you’re owed a drink after this unpleasantness.”
Flint nodded and walked with the man into the Cobra Club. As they walked, the man in white ignored the other guests who tried to get his attention. It was one of the things Flint liked about him—when he was focused on one guest, he kept that focus. He made one exception, to tap a waiter on the shoulder and motion out to the terrace. They walked on the terrace and sat at a table surrounded by a velvet red rope with a reserved sign on top.
“I’m a little surprised to see you here, Carl. It’s been an age.”
“How’s business, Johnny? I see the Club is doing well as always.”
Johnny Venom as he was called smiled. He had made quite a good fortune for himself. A descendent of a French man and a Vietnamese woman, he profited off the war in his homeland and came to America. He dealt mostly in arms, specifically chemical weapons—hence where he earned the nickname he proudly answered to. The Cobra Club was both a front for his operations as well as the perfect meeting place for his clients.
A waiter dressed in a tuxedo came up to them holding a tray that contained a large bottle and two glasses. The waiter set a glass in front of each man and placed the bottle between them before he left.
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