Fast Bang Booze

by Lawrence Maddox

  Popov threw up his arms in despair. On cue, the seated Russians reached inside their jackets, ready to draw heat. Popov smiled and waved them back down. Beads of sweat sprouted on Popov’s brow as he resumed his meeting with the person behind the door.

  I waited, ready. This is what I came for. I looked at the frosty bottles of vodka and licked my lips. My whole mouth felt like it was turning into dust. Just a drink, I’d spring to life, be settled, on top, golden.

  The door nailed Popov as it was thrown open. Not a second too soon. The sound brought me back to the moment and got my mind out of the bottle. It was Mole Man, this time carrying a towel. The door slammed shut. Mole Man sniffed. He shuffled around the room, attacking puddles of spilled vodka.

  Suddenly Popov punched a hole in the bathroom door as an exclamation point. Mole Man ran up and peered through it. He gave Popov a dirty look before rushing inside. A towel soon appeared over the hole.

  Popov walked back and forth, raising his voice at the person behind the door. “So I am too Western? Maybe Vlad work out for better? Replace me?” Popov said. “Maybe vory vzalore weak! Not me!” With that Popov kicked down the bathroom door.

  Inside, an ancient man with a long white beard sat on a toilet, his hands resting on a walker. Behind him, Mole Man held a roll of toilet paper. The ancient balled up a gnarled fist and shook it at Popov, whispering dry, cracked Russian curses. Maybe he needed a drink, too.

  I had my Ruger in hand as Popov and his countrymen went for their pieces simultaneously. Popov shot the toilet, sending chunks of porcelain to the floor with a cascade of john water.

  His intentions were clear. If he goes, so does the Grandfather. Popov backed away from the bathroom, his gun steady. The Grandfather’s thugs stared at him with dark, beady hate.

  I opened the door behind us. Popov and I backed out. Popov slammed it quickly and ran. Gunfire blasted through the wood and plaster.

  Once outside, I introduced Popov to Leopold, holding up the keys. Popov nodded, impressed. We jumped into the convertible. “They say Popov too soft. Too American.” Popov pounded the dashboard. “Bullshit!”

  I gunned the engine.

  “This means for us, no help. Vlad’s plan of ruining me is working. It ends now.” Popov pointed east towards Pasadena. “Let’s get my money back.”

  Chapter 21

  “My crew, the ones who make money from Popov in the past, they show up at junk store. But not to help Popov. To kill Popov. I took care of them.”

  I recalled the bodies I’d stumbled across. One dude looked like someone snapped his neck.

  “Vlad convinced Grandfather I can no longer be trusted to get results,” Popov said. He patted me hard on the back, pitching me forward in my seat. “Frank, now you are my crew,” Popov said.

  I smiled, in spite of a potentially dislocated spine.

  “I listen to Russian translation on cassette of famous American philosopher. Think and Grow Rich. ‘What mind believe, mind achieve.’” he said. “Popov use American philosophy to counter stupid aged Russian bullshit.”

  I nodded.

  “We recover briefcases, return the money before four o’clock.” We both looked at his fat Rolex. It was twenty-seven minutes after two. We basically had an hour and a half. Popov shrugged. “We will make it.”

  Popov slapped a folded manila envelope on the dashboard. “Marie is driving the car of Popov’s former comrades. The dead ones. She hopes to find the fat thief, but she will be back.” Popov stuck a muscular thumb on the envelope. “The negatives from the thrift store. Of Marie. Want to see?”

  I considered it, but thought better it. Calendar was mind-blowingly hot, but it just didn’t feel right. Plus Popov might be testing me. I shook my head.

  “Me neither,” Popov said.

  Popov punched the windshield, surprising me, which is hard to do. It cracked at the spot.

  “So much wrong with tonight.”

  We cruised into quiet, calm, levelheaded Pasadena.

  Popov’s stilt-house was in an upscale neighborhood at the top of a hill, high above Pasadena’s Rose Bowl. Its ass hung off the hillside, mooning the rich, wise and cautious.

  Popov’s plan was simple: he’d enter the front of his house, I’d take the back. With one extra element of surprise thrown into the mix, but I had a hard time believing that one. I had no choice but to wait and see.

  If Popov was right, the money could still be inside. Vlad could be as well, ready and waiting.

  If we could, we’d regroup in the master bedroom. That’s where the guns were. My Ruger had one shot left. Popov’s Sig had two. We’d reload and move on to the garage. “After that,” Popov said. “Partners.” I liked the sound of it, though I expected Russian fine print came with the deal. But it was deal.

  It was dark up here, with nary a streetlight. We slowly drove by Popov’s house with the Spyder’s shredded convertible top up. All the lights were out in Popov’s swank pad.

  I made a downhill right and found a place to leave the Spyder a block from the house. Parked across the street was an Audi with personalized plates that read “Dr. Matt.” Popov and I looked at each other. It wasn’t just that we weren’t big fans of vanity plates after our ordeal with Antoine; it was that it was the only other car parked on the street.

  “Be ready,” Popov warned.

  It was dark up here. Quiet too, except for the occasional coyote howls from the nearby San Rafael hills. The old money sure liked its peace and quiet.

  Popov got out first, quickly disappearing into the darkness. I walked up the hill a minute after him. Gusts of wind made the trip with me, promising nothing but surprises.

  Wrought iron surrounded Popov’s yard. I didn’t see Popov, but that was part of the plan. It would be beyond awesome if Popov found the money right where he thought Vlad had left it and had a couple strong drinks ready and waiting when I got inside.

  Popov was depending on me. Tonight could change my life for the better. I was game.

  I followed the black metal bars down the hill. When I reached the end, I grabbed the top of the eight-foot fence and scurried over.

  I eyed the steep incline, topped with beds of chamomiles, which lead back to the house. I was already pooped. Hungry, too. A smoke and a drink sure wouldn’t hurt.

  I dug in, taking the dirt on all fours like a garden gnome gone amok. At the top I grabbed the pipe sprinkler and pulled and kicked until I fell forward onto the cool, hard cement. I lay there, breathing heavy. My endurance sucked. After a couple minutes, I forced myself up.

  I tiptoed past the sliding glass windows, past the steps that led down to the Jacuzzi, across the cement islands that stretched across crunchy gravel. A path zigzagged maniacally around the garbage cans, halting abruptly at the laundry room door. The key to the backdoor was hidden on top of a lantern light fixture. I turned the lock, gently, slowly. The door popped. I held steady and crept inside.

  The laundry room smelled like fresh silk pajamas. A sheet hung from a line. Popov liked to air dry his Egyptian cotton bed sheets and his Cucinelli pocket-handkerchiefs.

  Two doors faced me. On the left was the garage. The money room, if Vlad had indeed switched the briefcases. I slowly wrapped my hand around the knob. Locked. I put my ear to the door and listened. Silence.

  From the door on the right I entered the kitchen, unlit but for a few milk drops of moonlight. Damn if the kitchen clock didn’t read two fifty-two. Little more than an hour left. I hadn’t shown up for last call tonight. Somewhere a bartender was stupefied.

  A walk-in steel refrigerator hummed quietly. Its doors were glass, and the sight of all that food multiplied my hunger pangs. It’d been hours since I’d tossed my cookies. All I’d consumed after that, not including booze, were some pineapple slices from the Tiki. I promised myself I’d raid the fridge first thing if I made it through this. Maybe even cook up that huge leg of lamb in the freezer. Before leaving the kitchen I slid a steak knife into my back pocket. One knife, one bullet. />
  I peeked into the big entertainment room. It buzzed with a neon, 3-D picture of Dean Martin. The radio played Mancini softly in the background. Popov never turned it off. It smelled like Dunhill’s, Macanudos and braggadocio. Vlad was nowhere in sight. The place seemed cozy and empty.

  I crept into the hallway. Facing me were two shut doors. The one to my left was a guest bedroom. I’d never been inside the one to my right. At the end of the hallway, the darkened living room. I stared deeply into the living room as I slowly walked toward it, discerning only the usual furniture shapes. My feet made the hardwood floor creak. I swallowed a belch, opened the bedroom door on my left.

  The King-size was neatly made. I walked in and closed the door behind me. I whistled softly. Popov could’ve easily beaten me here. I looked behind, then under the bed. I pulled my gun and slowly opened the closet. The safe with the guns stood tantalizingly locked. I sat on the bed and waited. No one came. I laid back and closed my eyes, soaking in the comfort.

  I quickly sat up. There was work to do.

  I left the bedroom and tried the door on my right. It was locked.

  I wasn’t ready for what I saw next. At the foot of the living room window, bound and gagged, was Popov.

  Chapter 22

  Popov struggled with the cords. I was stunned someone had bound him so quickly and skillfully. That should have been a tip off.

  I stepped forward, knocking over a vase. It crashed, spilling silk bachelor-pad lilacs on the floor.

  A darkened figure emerged from the guest bedroom. Crack Eyes. “No way,” I thought.

  This dude is hard to shake.

  I dropped to the carpet, my tired legs shaking. I scurried behind a chair, Ruger in hand.

  Crack Eyes got off two shots while I ran and rolled.

  Fast. Crack Eyes beating me to the draw again.

  I moved behind the large leather sofa. Popov was across the room.

  And crouched next to me, still donning his cape, was Rick Zandar.

  Unreal.

  Cape Man and Crack Eyes in the house. And I only had one bullet. A shocked turkey gobble escaped my lips.

  We were eyeball to eyeball. Cape Man had a 9mm unprofessionally pointed at the floor. I could’ve shot him, but I decided to deck him instead. A bullet ripped between us before I could. I dove back across the floor.

  More surprises. A figure behind Crack Eyes, bullwhip poised to strike.

  Cape Man had brought his redheaded friend, Esmerelda. Worlds were colliding.

  I reached a table and flattened to the floor on my gut. Crack Eyes fired again. The rug jumped in front of me as another bullet sought me out. I’d beaten four thus far.

  A loud bullwhip beat the fifth. Crack Eyes stumbled forward, one hand reaching for his back. He felt for the bullet hole through his spine. It wasn’t there. Just one mean bullwhip welt.

  Clearly the Cape Man crew and Crack Eyes weren’t compadres.

  I watched Cape Man appear, slowly rising up for effect. Gun leveled.

  Crack Eyes dropped to his knees. He and Cape Man fired simultaneously.

  Cape Man fell back like a fluttering bat.

  Crack Eyes spun, firing down the hall. Esmerelda screamed and dropped her bullwhip. She darted back into the room that had been locked. Crack Eyes turned back to me, only to find me gone.

  One of the major drags of being out of Cloud Time is not being able to give ultimatums, like “Drop it or I’ll shoot.” I was saving my one bullet for whenever Vlad made his pockmarked appearance. While Crack Eyes scared Esmerelda, I made an end run around the couch.

  I suddenly had a clear shot. Instead, I moved quickly, grabbing Popov’s Falstaff bar statuette. Something creaked, the floor, who knows, as I catapulted forward, swinging Falstaff like a club. Crack Eyes turned to block it. The statuette snapped on the bony ridge of his forearm. Crack Eyes grunted, the first sound I’d heard him make. I hoped for a turkey gobble, but no such luck.

  I grabbed his gun arm by the wrist. Crack Eyes head-butted me. I turned just as his skull smashed into the side of my face. My molars sank into the inside of my cheek and I tasted blood. Crack Eyes pulled my hand off his wrist. He grasped my thumb off and twisted. I jabbed him twice in his face, but at close quarters my punches were weak. I changed tactics and reached for my back pocket. Crack Eyes opened his jaws wide, going in to bite my face off.

  I sank the kitchen knife into his forearm. The bastard still didn’t drop the gun. He backed off as I slashed at his neck. He blocked my knife with his free hand. The serrated edge sliced deeply between his middle and ring fingers. I was finally getting a piece of this guy.

  He still had the gun. I was vulnerable now, with distance between us. I dove over the other side of the couch before Crack Eyes could get off a shot.

  He rushed out. I heard him banging on the door to the garage. I made a quick decision. I traded my kitchen knife with my Ruger. I went for the money.

  The laundry room was empty. Crack Eyes wasn’t there. That guy was always a step ahead.

  The fastest thing I ever did, I did then. I dropped hard to the floor. Behind me, lurking in the kitchen, Crack Eyes. We shot simultaneously.

  Crack Eyes stepped lightly through the laundry room. The fast man walked into the hanging sheet and kept going down the hallway. I watched curiously from behind the table.

  Popov’s expensive sheet ripped off the line and draped over him. He glided past me like a low-rent costumed ghost. All that acceleration kept him going, step by step. Blood spread on the sheet and weighed it down. Normal time finally caught up to him and he crumpled to the floor.

  I walked up to him, knife in hand, ready. The sheet covered most of him. I wondered where Vlad had found this guy. Maybe in the gutter, where Popov had left me. I could see needle marks scarring his stomach, interconnected by dark rivulets of dead veins. His speed came from somewhere else, I guessed. Too bad we wouldn’t be comparing notes.

  I heard a door slam from the garage.

  I tried breaking down the door that connected the house to the garage, but I only bounced off and landed on my ass on the kitchen floor. I tried to shoot the door, but I clicked on empty chambers. I remembered something I’d seen earlier and with deep sorrow I knew just what I needed.

  Three swings and the frozen leg of lamb made a hole in the door I could stick my arm through. I felt for the lock and turned.

  A man in a white lab coat lay on the floor of the garage. A leather bag next to him had the name “Dr. Matthew Franks” stenciled on it. Dr. Matt from the license plate, I guessed. His scalp was slick with blood. A bloodied golf club lay nearby.

  “Crazy Russian,” the doctor said. “Why? I helped him. He was shot. I helped him.” The doctor should’ve let Vlad die.

  I nodded and laid his head down on a bag of fertilizer. When I stood up, I noticed his blood was all over my hands.

  I rushed back to the living room. This thing was far from over.

  Chapter 23

  1994

  Ray’s pad looked the same when Janie and I returned from our disaster of a robbery, but it was a different world. I now doubted Janie had believed a word I’d said, probably counted it as drunken gibberish. I guess, like she said, the only final proof was Popov’s cash.

  That would be impossible.

  In the living room, Janie took my hand. “Frank, if you stopped drinking, you’d really have the goods, you know? If there’s any truth to anything you said tonight, you could be some kind of superhero. Or super villain, I guess, because you’re a bad guy. Which I think you’re not. And if it’s all a lie, well, then you’re just a phony. Another LA nut.”

  “It’s not a lie, Janie, but I wouldn’t buy my ticket either after the way I screwed up.”

  “Isn’t there anything you can do to make me believe you? If the money’s gone, just show me where you put it.”

  I shook my head. “What would that prove? I could show you any place. How would you know I wasn’t lying about that?”

 
“Then show me the lockers that those keys belong to.”

  “I can’t.” I noticed Ray was gone. “Ray must’ve crawled off to bed.”

  I should’ve known, the way Janie stood apart from me. She looked stricken. I’d already sobered up just a little on the ride back, but really, I should’ve known. Her questions about where’d I’d put Popov’s money, asking me before I’d even finished the story. Hours earlier even, it should’ve been soberly clear. She was just too damn cute.

  I walked into the bedroom.

  Vlad. Gun drawn. “Hello retard.”

  Ray looked up at me from the floor, his face beat to hell.

  I ran back to the living room, straight into a fist that knocked me on my back. I was still too wasted to see it coming. The fist’s owner was one of the Russians from Violet’s; the one who’d had his collar open when Popov visited the Grandfather.

  He shook out his hand. I was glad my face had hurt it.

  Vlad loomed over me. One if his legs had a brace.

  “Retard.” Vlad spat on me. He kicked me hard in the gut with his good leg.

  I curled up into a ball. He reined kicks and punches down on me.

  “Think that you have a new girlfriend? She’s my employee,” Vlad said.

  He unleashed another furious kick to my gut.

  “Don’t,” Janie said quietly.

  I lost it. It all came out. The booze, the peanuts, whatever dinner was left. The alcohol and bile burned through my nose and throat.

  Not again.

  All I could think was that Janie was watching me. Seeing the real me. No act.

  Vlad laughed. His put his shoe on the back of my neck and pushed my face down into my puke. Me and my barf, together again.

  “Does retard deserve pretty girl? Just because he take Vlad’s job? Did he brag to pretty girl about new job?”

  This wasn’t just about the money. This was revenge. I’d foiled his crooked deal during the exchange with Antoine. I’d usurped him.