"Leave..." I reiterated.
"I ain't goin' nowhere pal!" Lacy responded. He sifted in his inner blazer pocket and retrieved a vintage shaving blade. He unfurled it and clenched it in his right hand.
Lacy tossed the cigarette to the ground, hoisted the blade over his right shoulder and approached me. "C'mon tough guy!" He urged while gesturing me to fight him. He cautiously inched towards me while sizing me up. Then, without warning, Lacy darted in my direction and swung his blade at my face. I caught his wrist in mid-strike, spun around and launched him over my shoulder in a swift judo move. Lacy was hammered onto the concrete alleyway. After a lengthened groan, he struggled onto his knee. Before he could get back to his feet, I pelted him in the face with a fierce roundhouse kick. He was knocked out cold and collapsed onto the ground. He lied sprawled on his back.
"What are you doing? He's gonna fire me!" Cotton Candy hollered. She trotted towards the husky male in her stiletto heels. She kneeled over him and caressed his face as it began to swell up.
"No he won't. You're too valuable to him. I need your help." I growled.
"I know you. You beat that guy up in the bathroom at The Shack years ago. I’ll never forget those eyes. I heard you roughed up a friend of mine too. Bailey." She uttered with her back towards me. She continued to tend to Lacy.
"They had it coming."
"You gonna rough me up too?"
"I just want to talk. Word is you ran into the Harlot Murderer?"
"How'd you... I... I don't..." She stammered. She stopped tending to Lacy and pivoted back towards me.
"I'm not a cop."
"But you work for them."
"I just want to know his license plate number."
"I..."
"Help me get this guy off the street. You don't want blood on your hands. It's not a good feeling. Trust me, I know."
"Promise me I'll never hear anything about this if I tell you."
"You'll never see me again."
"It's... It's jay-pee-six-nine-one-zero. He was driving this large sedan. A dark color. Maybe black. It was one of those old cars. You know, from like the seventies with the huge trunk and hood. Are you going to catch the Harlot Murderer? He has a lot of us ladies worried."
"I'm going to try. And with the lifestyle you live, the 'Harlot Murderer' should be the least of your worries." I growled then fled down the alley and absconded into the night.
I ran the license plate number by Detective Wu. “I could lose my job for this. This is violating someone’s right to privacy. So do me a favor and don't do anything crazy, you copy? The tag number came back to Mark Fitchett. He's lives over on 4th Street. Eight sixty four, apartment eight. If you find anything, give me a call."
"... Mark Fitchett..." That was the name Detective Wu got from the license plate number. Either the floozy was wrong or Albert is borrowing a friend's car. Nonetheless, it's worth looking into.
On the ensuing night, I watched the apartment windows for an hour. The blinds are tattered. All of the lights are off. There wasn't even scintillation from a television screen. None of the cars parked out front had the license plate number I'd gotten. I'm guessing no one's home. I couldn't help but to think Albert might be out pursuing another victim. It was unsettling. I gave the detective my word I wouldn't do anything crazy but another teen's life could be in peril.
A loose brick was being used as a door stop on the roof. A scraggly looking shirtless male, with unkempt blonde locks and ripped jeans stood by the door taking in a marijuana cigar.
"Damn, this is good stuff bro. I didn't even smoke half and I'm seeing things already." He uttered as I walked past him into the building.
Albert must fancy these run-down buildings. The conditions in this one is just as bad as his last. After treading past the empty alcohol bottles and beer cans, I came upon the listed apartment. The door was locked, expectedly, but I jimmied it open with my pocket knife. I caught the foul stench immediately. After feeling for a light switch I noticed his filthy habits haven’t changed. Empty takeout food containers were discarded on the kitchen counters and in the sink.
While sifting through the countless prescription pill bottles in the kitchen cabinet, I heard muffled moaning coming from a back room. I followed the sound down the apartment's lengthy dark hallway to a bedroom. I felt for another light switch and flipped it on. There were vile inscriptions scribbled on the white walls and ceiling just like Albert's previous apartment. It was written in the same bold and jagged handwriting.
The moaning continued and it appeared to be coming from a closet. Suddenly, there was a gentle tap coming from within the door. I approached it and tactfully pulled it open. A husky elderly male, bound and gagged with duct tape, was wedged inside. He was wearing a dingy white tank top, light blue pin stripped boxers and knee high argyle dress socks. Before I could peel the tape off his mouth, I caught the sound of a hammer on a revolver cocking back. I turned around just in time to catch the barrel of a vintage black snub nose revolver pointed right at me. I thought Albert wasn't home. I sprang behind his bed a half a second before he let off three shots. He then darted out of the bedroom.
Albert fled out of the apartment and down the hallway stairs. His trench coat flailed behind him. Prying eyes peeked out of their apartments after hearing the gunshots. Albert ducked out a back door. He exited into an unlit narrow alley behind the apartment building and ran for a few yards before starting to pant heavily. His pace steadily slowed down until he came to a stop. He leaned against a brick wall while vigorously stroking his chest. His complexion reddened. He began to hunch over and coughed harshly. Seconds later he glanced back towards the apartment building then started to sluggishly pace down the alley. He was still hunched over and continued caressing his chest.
The debilitating fire escape gave away my whereabouts. After hearing the grating squeal, Albert glanced up and noticed me twenty feet above him. He fired three more shots and attempted to flee. All three rounds ricocheted off the steel apparatus. I calculated his pace then leaped off the fire escape and tackled him onto the ground. He lost his hold on the revolver and it skipped several feet along the concrete alleyway. "It's over!" I growled after swiftly getting back onto my feet.
Albert enduringly rolled onto his back. A stream of blood rushed from his forehead down the center of his face. It began to stain his full white beard. He continued to stroke his chest and his panting worsened. Albert struggled to get onto his feet. "Stay down! You need help." I implored. However, my plea fell on deaf ears. Albert lunged towards me and pitched a languid uppercut at my face. I weaved past his lazy punch. He persisted with another sluggish right hook. I ducked underneath the punch then clenched him around his waist. In a swift judo move, I used his momentum to heave him over my back. Albert plummeted onto the concrete ground behind me and hollered in agony. He rolled to his side and attempt to stand a second time but faltered back onto the ground as his head collided into a dumpster.
"It's over Albert, stay down!" I growled.
"It's never over. Go ahead and lock me up, someone else will continue right where I left off. You fool! This contrariwise society brainwashes people like you. You're so lost. I'm not the one you want. I'm just the product of the tormentors. I'm innocent! It's the very people you're protecting that made me. They made the 'Harlot Murderer.' I'm the victim, not them! I was the one being bullied. I’m the one with the wretched memories..."
"We've all been victims Albert. We all have wretched memories. Not just you."
Detective Wu raced through the narrow alley in her unmarked Crown Victoria. The squad car toppled over metal garbage cans and the wheels sent puddles of water several feet into the air. She stopped abruptly just before Albert. The headlights illuminated him. He was lying on his back and his bulking potbelly rapidly rose and set as if he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs. Detective Wu bustled out of the unmarked with her service weapon drawn. She sauntered towards Albert, holstered her pistol then handcuffed his wrists behind
him. She suddenly noticed his vintage black snub nose revolver on the ground several feet away. The detective retrieved her radio from inside her blazer and requested a transport wagon and an ambulance. "I don't need a doctor. I've been seeing them my whole life and look at me... I'm still sick." Albert hollered.
On the following morning, the once unsettled citizens of Capitol City have been put at ease. "Harlot Murderer Caught But Dies Hours Later From Massive Heart Attack," fronted the cover page of the daily paper. Albert sat behind bars for three hours before suffering from a violent cardiac arrest. Detective Wu told me the station officers heard "Bloodthirsty" cries coming from his cell. They found Albert lying on his back, clenching his chest and screaming vehemently. “They said his face was as red as a tomato.” She informed me. His eyes were bloodshot and the protruding veins on his forehead and neck were throbbing. Seconds later he was still with no signs of life.
A sole person attended Albert's funeral. An enigmatic male that wore a black Mandarin tuxedo stood over Albert's casket, in Lincoln Cemetery, as it was lowered into the grave. The ceremony took place in the midst of a storm but the man didn't use an umbrella.
Afterwards journalists attempted to get a word from the male but he refused to comment. He jostled past them ignoring all inquiries. He had a deadpan facial expression; not a tear nor a smile. His driver opened the rear passenger door to his custom black Bentley Continental limousine as photographers snapped photos of him. There are various rumors around the mysterious male. Some say he's an admirer. Others say Albert killed someone close to him and he wanted to be certain Albert was dead.
"Thanks to you my officials are finally off my back." Detective Wu uttered as we stood in the dark alley a few blocks from her station. Her umbrella sheltered her from the thunderstorm.
"You’re welcome."
"Three outta three huh? This is the third homicide you closed and you're batting a hundred. You seem to be gettin' good at it. I was thinking maybe we can extend our partnership?"
"I'll keep my phone on detective." I growled then sauntered away into the dark alley and disappeared into the night.
"And from ashes a Phoenix shall rise..."
Prelude
“Red! I knew you’d show your face again.” Tiago, the six foot six, four hundred pound former Brazilian professional fighter uttered in a heavy accent. He caught Red trying to skulk through the back door to his own high-rise apartment building. Tiago waited for Red in the unlit rear alley after getting word that he was still in town. Red timidly pivoted around and gawked at the boss’ newly hired muscle. Red, who is much smaller than the average size male, was greatly intimidated. He knew why Tiago was sent. Red discreetly sifted into his black leather blazer hoping he’d come upon a forgotten weapon in his pockets; specifically a pistol but he’d settle for a small knife or razor. However, there wasn’t any.
“Oh, Tiago… It’s you.” Red muttered while fumbling his keys to the back door of his building.
“Why are you using the rear entrance? You’re not trying to hide from me, are you?”
“No… Not… Not at all.” Red stammered.
“You know, I bumped into your friend. What’s his name? With the red eyes, black mask and cape?” Tiago tried recalling while snapping his fingers.
“You mean… The Legend.”
“Yeah him! He was a brave man. Pity!”
“You… You killed him?” Red inquired.
“May he rest in peace.” Tiago uttered while forming the sign of the cross with his right hand. Red’s eyes widened and he began to gasp. “You know, the boss thinks you’ve been short changing him.” Tiago disclosed while sauntering towards Red.
“I… I… I...”
“The boss says he wants his fifty grand.”
“Fifty grand? What if I can’t pay it?” Red inquired.
“Oh you’ll pay it. The boss says fifty grand is also how much your life is worth.”
Red leisurely backed into the rear door, reached behind him and tried the knob. It wouldn’t budge. He peered at the ground, contemplating on a way out of his dilemma. He started to regret not taking The Legend’s advice to skip town. Suddenly, Red attempted to make a mad dash towards the street. Without warning, he darted from Tiago. However, the former fighter was agile for his size. He snatched the back of Red’s blazer before he could take his third step. Tiago effortlessly hoisted the five foot seven, one hundred and forty pound hustler off the ground and pitch him back into the locked door. Before Red could regain his composure, Tiago clenched the back of his head with both hands and pelted him with a vigorous Muay Tai leaping knee strike into the ribs. Red buckled over. Tiago caught him by the neck, with his left hand, before Red collapsed onto the ground. He then hammered Red into the steel door. Tiago aggressively began pelting him in the face and body while persisting to strangle him with his left hand. Tiago’s onslaught continued until Red lost conscious. Tiago released his hold and Red plummeted onto the ground. Tiago rolled Red onto his back with his combat boots. He then finished Red off by stomping onto his chest until it caved in.
“Congratulations. Your debt has been cleared.”
"Say babe, can I talk to you?" Sammy rapped while pacing behind the newly hired receptionist. She figured cutting through an alley with the burdensome bags of groceries would shorten her walk home. Her close-fitting skirt and business jacket outlined her model-like frame. She couldn't be more than thirty five years old.
"I need to get home." She skittishly responded in an apprehensive tone. She barely turned around but increased her pace. Sammy looks intimidating standing at six feet tall and weighing one ninety. His head is cleanly shaved and there is a raised scar against his dark complected skin that stretches on his neck from ear to ear. The torn-off sleeves on his stonewashed denim jacket reveal his brawny arms.
"Don't be so hasty lady. I just wanna talk."
"I don't have time. My husband is waiting for me."
"Now you're being rude. You look put together like you came from a good family. I know your parents taught you manners." Sammy was embittered. At that moment he yanked the back of her dress jacket and stopped her from walking. He reached around her and pressed the barrel end of his black 1955 Smith and Wesson .45 caliber revolver into her chin. "Don't scream baby."
"What do you want?" She pleaded while accumulated tears began rolling down her made up face.
"I just want a second of your time. Not too much, I don't want your husband to worry about you. Go ahead and slip off your skirt." Sammy whispered in her ear.
"Please don't. I have money..."
"Oh, I'm going to take that too when we're done. Now drop your skirt!" Sammy directed with hostility as his patience was wearing thin.
While Sammy's hold on her persisted, she freed her hands of the groceries and reluctantly unbuttoned then lowered her skirt as tears continued to drift down her distressed face. A demented smirk spawned on Sammy's lips as he glanced down at her legs. The distraction furnished me the split second I needed to crash the perverts’ party.
I vaulted off the fire escape into the poorly lit alley. Sammy heard the grating squeal from the rusty apparatus. He glanced up in time to catch the dark figure swiftly descending from the black sky. He was met by my blunt drop kick. Sammy violently plummeted into a metal dumpster. The hollow steel made an emphatic banging sound. "Get your groceries and leave." I instructed her while peering at Sammy. Soon the sound of rustling plastic bags and frantic footsteps faded into the distance.
"Legend! Get back! I'll kill'ya!" He blurted while hoisting up his right hand and aiming his revolver at me. I caught wind that he kept his forty five dry since his mishap. I dynamically paced towards him calling his bluff.
The closer I got the more the pistol quivered in his hand until he finally dropped it. I bent over, clenched his denim jacket and pulled him off the ground. "Please... I didn't mean to shoot that girl. I got a little excited and I had a few beers that night. The gun just went off! Don't take me in. I'm really
not a bad guy!" Sammy pleaded. Without showing any warning, I pummeled him with a wicked elbow across the side of his head. Sammy's comatose body collapsed onto the ground. "Detective, you can find your homicide suspect in the alley on Senate Drive and 12th Street." I informed Detective Wu. I slapped my cellphone shut then sauntered into the alley and disappeared into the night.
Today marks five years since the "Harlot Murderer's" last victim was killed. I helped Detective Wu close over three hundred homicides since; even a handful of cold cases. Legend's reputation has disseminated to every downtown street corner. Wanted murder suspects steadily glance over their shoulders for the shadowy caped figure. They know they are no longer safe.
During those five years I’ve been shot four times and stabbed nine. Those encounters have taught me to make better judgments. They taught me to calculate every move and survey scenes thoroughly before entering. Most importantly, it taught me that even the smallest opponents can inflict life threatening injuries.
The detective sent me a text message wanting to meet in the usual alley a few blocks from her station. I was just minutes away. I arrived just in time to catch her maroon ’95 Crown Victoria pull in. The unforgiving rain pelted her vehicle. The windshield wiper blades oscillated rapidly. She left the car running and opened the driver side door. A ladies black walking umbrella unfurled as she stepped out underneath it.
"I've never seen anything like this." Detective Wu disclosed while fixing the umbrella stem in-between her left shoulder and neck. She retrieved a manila envelope containing crime scene photographs from inside her blazer. She then hoisted her umbrella back up and I began sifting through the photos while standing underneath it. The sound of rodents rifling in a nearby pile of garbage bags caused the detective to cringe. "Ugh, I hate rats." She uttered.
The victim was a husky male, probably fifty years old. His white tank top was torn and dingy. It appeared as if he'd been in a brawl. He was seated on the aged hardwood floor in an apartment and his back was propped up against a wall. His head was hunched over his chest and there were hemorrhages throughout his body. A packed suitcase was found in the center of the room.
The Legend Page 9