“Take it easy, Phil,” Syd said nervously while doing as Phil instructed.
“Don’t tell me to take it easy. Stop being a wiseass,” Phil responded with the hard steel in his hand.
“Put that thing away before some schmuck sees you and puts your face on the Internet,” Carlo said while reaching over Phil’s headrest and grabbing the shooter.
“Hey, Phil, I don’t mean any disrespect—just bored is all. What else am I supposed ta do ta pass the time?” Syd asked.
“Why don’t you go have a smoke on the corner with the brothas over there and start an a cappella group?” Carlo opened the cylinder to the shooter and dumped the ammo into his hand.
Phil turned to Carlo and said, “Can I have my gun back?”
Carlo placed the ammo into the pocket of his leather jacket and handed the gun back to Phil. Phil placed it in his coat pocket.
“Man, wish I was able to get off in there. I live for that shit,” Carlo said. He pulled out a slim, black toothcomb and ran his thumb down the plastic teeth.
“Maybe next time. Let the cowboys take the heat on this one if things go sour,” Phil said.
“Whaddya plan on doing with your cut?” Syd asked.
“Buy shit for the grandkid. Maybe take a vacation with the wife. This is my last run. Getting too old for this. Men my age play shuffleboard and stare up young waitresses’ skirts, not pull jobs.”
“Says you, you old fart. I should be in there making shit happen. Can’t believe I got passed over by those cowboys in there. You see some of them? Don’t know what Uncle Philly was thinking.” Carlo ran the comb down his hair.
“Philly wanted a new crew on this one. Mix things up,” Phil said.
“Hey, I just like to steal,” Carlo said.
“You should take it easy. Believe me when I tell you guys like us have an expiration date in this game, and you’re a goddamn gold medalist if you can cut free with a legit business to run, hair left to comb, and a nice lady around to cook you dinner when you want it,” Phil said.
“Hey, man, I got the hair thing covered.” Carlo stared at himself in the mirror, carefully patting the fine art he made of his hairdo. When he felt it was a masterpiece, he asked, “You think I got time for a cup of coffee?”
Phil checked his watch and said, “If you make it quick. May as well get me one too while you’re at it.”
“Syd, want anything?” Carlo asked.
“Naw, I’m good.”
Carlo attempted to open the passenger side door.
Hastily, Phil said, “Hey, go out on the other side.”
“What for?” Carlo asked.
“Why you think?” Phil returned his seat to an upright position. “The last thing I need is for the bottom of the door to get scraped by the cement sidewalk. I won’t hear the end of it. Rose loves this goddamn car. How many times I gotta say it?”
Carlo smirked, recalling what married life was like. He slid across the backseat.
“Want anything in your coffee?”
Phil placed his hand on the steering wheel and gripped it as if he were getting ready for Daytona. “Two creams, two sugars.”
“I’ll be right back. Don’t do anything stupid like wave your piece around while I’m away.” Carlo opened the door and stepped out onto the street as a car pulled up with its horn blaring, hitting him.
A shotgun blast of shattered glass hit the pavement. Vibrations shook the car as if an earthquake erupted.
“What the hell—” Phil cried out.
The passing car came to a sudden halt. Phil’s car door sounded like a skipping record as it slid down the street and into the intersection. Carlo rolled out of the smashed-in windshield, onto the hood of the passing car, and dropped onto the pavement. Chunks of shatterproof glass were wedged up his nostrils and embedded into his eye sockets. Pieces of bone pierced through his slacks and leather jacket. He looked like a marionette.
“Rose is gonna murder me,” Phil shouted.
“The hell with your old lady, man. We gotta go,” Syd barked.
Phil lowered the rim of his hat and started the ignition. He backed the car up, crushing the car bumper parked behind him. He turned the steering wheel and pressed on the gas, slamming his front bumper into the car that caused the accident. Black smoke whipped into the air as Phil’s Cadillac accelerated at full speed to clear a path.
People on the sidewalk froze as the Cadillac fled from the scene. Those crossing the intersection scattered like ants as Phil’s Cadillac blew through the intersection. Once it felt safe, customers from the coffee shop located across the street from where the Cadillac was parked, rushed to Carlo’s aid.
Chapter 2
Employees sat on the ground, facing the beige-colored walls, while a gunman brandishing two Glock ten-millimeter hand pistols paced from one end of the office to the other end. He wore a black, fitted suit, white shirt, and black tie. His head was buzzed. Another gunman entered the office. His head was shaved and he wore a similar suit as the gunman with the two pistols. He was equipped with an Armalite AR-10 rifle. Employees hugged themselves tighter when they saw the heavy artillery.
“How’s it going in here?” Pinky asked with the rifle in both hands.
“No heroes in this room, ’cause if there were they’d become cautionary tales on the five o’clock news.” Blinky made eye contact with those that had the courage to turn their head. His eyes were as intimidating as an owl staring with deep yellow eyes at prey shuffling in thick grass.
“What’s taking so long?” he asked.
“Still packing up. Big pieces back there. I’m guessing they need help, but ain’t heard squat,” Pinky said. He pointed his rifle at a man that wore tan slacks and a plaid button-up shirt. He had gray stubble growing in his beard. The man wept as he was forced to his feet, appearing thin and fragile like a hungry alley cat picked up by the back of its neck. Pinky shoved him across the room, making him kick paperwork scattered on the ground. He was led down a hallway. A door opened to a storage room. Pinky shoved the man inside, causing packaging foam to whip up in the air.
“Brought help,” he said to the others.
Clyde used a blue workman’s rag to wipe blood off his hands. His black tie hung loose and his sleeves were rolled up, exposing ink from his days in the service. He opened a drawer on the shipping desk and pulled out a pair of inspection gloves. Rolls of bubble wrap hung over his head. He pulled the gloves on and walked over to the sliding racks where paintings were stored on grated panels.
Pulling on one of the racks, he said, “The artwork is top quality.”
Pinky pulled the employee up by his hair.
“See your coworker over there?” he asked.
The employee nodded.
“Get to work, asshole,” he said.
The employee dried his eyes with his sleeve. Alongside his coworker, he grabbed a roll of bubble wrap and began wrapping up works of art like he had done so many times whenever he made a sale.
Pinky turned to Clyde. Clyde pointed to a clipboard on the shipping desk.
“What’s next on the list?” he asked.
Pinky swung the rifle over his shoulder and picked up the clipboard. His finger scrolled down the page and stopped at the next title on the list that wasn’t scratched off with pencil.
“Children Playing After the Storm,” he said.
Racks were organized alphabetically by artist last name. Clyde adjusted the gun holster wrapped over his shoulders and pulled out a rack. Index cards with the artist name and title of the work were clipped next to each art piece.
Children Playing After the Storm was enclosed in a handcrafted gold frame. Clyde leaned forward, the tip of his nose almost touching the canvas, so he could study the brushstrokes. He stepped back to take in the composition and the vibrant colors of two children playing in a flooded grassy field. The dark country landscape in the foreground broke away from the horizon, and the sky was painted in ch
alky pastels. There was a collapsed farmhouse where dead animals’ heads poked through the rubble and a small shack torn to shreds. A horse stood in the corner of the frame, drinking water from a puddle that showed its reflection.
“You can tell the artist survived this tragedy. The use of color explains so much.” He turned to the employees. “Wrap this one up too.”
The stolen collection included abstract works from a Peruvian artist, surrealist paintings from a prominent Cuban artist, impressionistic works that portrayed the French countryside, and multimedia works from a former punk rock singer.
“How’s it you know so much about this junk?” Pinky asked while walking down the rows of rolling racks and randomly pulling paintings out. Paintings were composed in a post-impressionistic style reminiscent of Paul Gauguin. Canvasses were covered with stark contrasts and thick brushstrokes of the sea. One painting had boats waddling in the choppy current. A lighthouse stood tall as huge waves crashed against the sloped rocks. Pinky reached up to remove the painting off the grated rack.
“Don’t you dare put your filthy hands on something so beautiful. Show some respect,” Clyde said. His Colt .45 was pulled from its holster, cocked back, and pointed at his partner.
“Whaddya think you’re doing?” a surprised Pinky asked.
“These are valuable works of art that require delicate handling. Not the usual ‘made in China’ junk you pinch from shipping containers. Wanna handle a painting? Do it with grace and use the white gloves or else end up like that guy.”
Pinky looked over Clyde’s shoulder and saw the feet of a dead man hidden behind an open sliding rack.
“We ain’t here on a field trip, in case you forgot. These assholes got two minutes to haul shit into the van or I’ll take whatever’s loaded and leave on my own,” Pinky said.
“You ain’t going anywhere until the job is done, understand me?”
“You barking out orders at me, little doggy?” Pinky asked while reaching for his rifle.
Clyde couldn’t help but smile. A gun pointed at him was nothing new.
“What the hell you guys doing?” Inky appeared inside the storage room.
“Pinky’s playing boss man,” Clyde said.
“Bullshit—Clyde’s gonna get us pinched,” Pinky responded.
“We got another problem,” Inky said. “You need to check this out.” He stepped out into the hallway, but no one followed him. “Seriously,” he said, “Clyde, you need to see this.”
The gallery was a large loft-like space. A huge storefront window allowed enough natural light inside to make the room feel holy. Exposed beams and an unfinished ceiling gave off a modern, almost industrial ambience, while the current art exhibition provided the right amount of culture for high-class clientele to feel comfortable rubbing elbows with hipsters on Friday evenings.
Inky and Clyde stood by the storefront, watching cop cars fill the street. An ambulance had its lights flashing. Pedestrians stood around the outer rim of yellow police tape that blocked off the intersection.
“Can you make out anything?’ Inky asked.
Clyde shook his head and said, “Maybe there was an accident, a fender bender. Trust me—if they knew about us, we’d already be shooting cops or in shackles.”
Clyde ejected the clip from his Colt and placed the gun in its holster. He ejected bullets into his open palm, similar to how businessmen squeezed stress balls as a way to relax. The bullets looked like busted teeth from a drug dealer.
“We either get in the van and drive off with what we’ve got or assume there’s something else going on that has nothing to do with us.” Clyde reloaded the magazine clip. He packed the clip into the gun and slid the action back. Sirens were heard in the distance.
“I vote for jumping ship and riding off into the sunset,” Inky responded.
Clyde leaned his forearm against the window and squinted his eyes together, trying to make out any details. However, there were too many people in the street, too many bright, flashing lights to get a clear picture. It was like staring at an abstract painting and searching for meaning. He should’ve been paranoid but he wasn’t. Art had that affect on him. It brought a calming, almost tranquil quality that he was never able receive from psychiatrists, meds, or padded rooms.
Outside two patrol officers approached the entrance.
Startled, Inky stepped away from the window.
He said, “Shit, they’re coming over here.”
“Just stay put. Relax,” Clyde said and unlocked the door. He stepped outside and waved hello. “Officers, what can I do for you today?” he asked.
Chapter 3
Reynolds wasn’t as concerned about the call he received from dispatch as he should have been. He was concerned about whether or not his cup of coffee was made from a fresh pot. The diner close to his apartment was hit or miss. It all depended on the wait staff and how motivated they were to switch out the pots at the beginning of their shifts. He could’ve solved this dilemma by stopping at one of those corporate coffee house establishments down the block from the precinct. They switched out their pots of coffee every couple of hours. But he hated being treated like a moron when employees felt the need to correct him on the names of cup sizes. And then there was choosing a coffee blend and having to justify to the barista why he wasn’t interested in signing up for a membership card. It felt more like a hassle than anything else. It was no different than when he was in the mood for his ma’s chicken and dumplings. Yeah, he could visit her each week for a wonderfully home cooked meal, but then he’d have his whole life questioned and picked apart for the decisions he’d made in the past. Sometimes it was better just to keep things simple and as is.
Reynolds placed the rim of the cup to his lips while taking in a deep breath. A strong nutty aroma was a good sign, it usually meant the beans were freshly roasted. Light body but bold chocolaty flavors suggested the correct coffee-to-water ratio. He was confident he was served a quality product. The clues leaned in his favor. Now what about that dead guy in the street?
Reynolds fished out his notepad from inside his coat pocket and read his notes: male victim, late forties, deceased, hit by car. The victim’s car fled the scene. The car that struck the deceased remained at the scene. It was driven by a female driver, late forties, on her way to gym. The woman struck the man as he exited the back door.
Ever since his wife had left him and started referring to him as “the Asshole” to friends and family, Reynolds made an effort to live up to that standard. She got the house and kids. He got to move into a shitty studio apartment and drink all night. He ate whatever he wanted with as much salt as he wanted and no longer worried about some ball and chain lecturing him on his cholesterol and high blood pressure.
And it was working. His love handles began to hang over his belt. Sleeping through his alarm clock from a hangover most mornings meant he skipped shaving and showering. Some would say he was married to his job, which made sense to him since being married to anything meant he loved it and hated it all at the same time.
“Hey, asshole, get to it already. Need some shut eye.” Scotty banged on the driver side window. He had a thinning face and sunken cheek bones and faded tattoos were scribed across his knuckles. Dried blood streaked across his uniform from a homeless man he assisted during the early hours.
Reynolds powered down his window.
“I’ll get to it when I’m well caffeinated.”
“You’re one lucky son of a bitch you’re wearing that badge,” Scotty said.
“You ain’t got the balls to step to me, kid. I pass kidney stones bigger than you.”
“Get outta the fricking car already. I’m tired and wanna drop this dope off at the coroner’s before my next shift,” Scotty said while rubbing red devil out of his eye sockets.
Reynolds got out of the car.
“Here, drink some of this. It’s fresh.” He offered his cup to Scotty.
Scotty waved him off
and walked back to the coroner’s van.
“Got Red Bull in the cup holder,” he said.
Reynolds approached two officers leaning against a cruiser and asked, “Who called it in?”
Officer Polk pointed across the street to another officer that was questioning a lady.
“He did—Officer Dodd.”
A car door was lying a few feet away from the victim. The leather interior was shredded, with exposed foam sticking out from skipping across the pavement. A trail of shattered glass lay in the wake.
“You Dodd?” Reynolds asked.
“Yup.”
“Got a minute?”
“Anything for you, detective. Just give me a sec,” Dodd said.
Officer Dodd looked like one of those all-American types bred from a blond-haired quarterback heartthrob and a blue-eyed high school beauty queen. He escorted the woman driver to the backseat of his cruiser. Tears ate away at her makeup. She stared with a blank emptiness as if God had abandoned her.
Officer Dodd pulled out his notepad and explained to Reynolds what occurred based on testimonials from the woman involved and witnesses he spoke with. Reynolds nodded while looking over the crime scene.
“Anyone get a license plate on the car that fled?” Reynolds asked.
“No one’s come forward with that info,” Dodd said.
“We got an ID on the body?”
“Yeah.” Dodd flipped through page after page until he found the information he was looking for. “Carlo Herrera.”
“We know anything about Mr. Herrera?”
“Not yet—just called it in. Waiting to hear back from dispatch.”
“How many were in the vehicle?” Reynolds asked.
“A witness stated three males.”
“We know why the car was parked there?”
“Not yet. A witness said they were just sitting there,” Dodd said.
Dead Clown Blues Page 12