Ken's Tale & the Peterson Dilemma - Desperate Prequels

by Nicholas Antinozzi

out of nowhere. There were so many flashing lights that Ken was certain that the entire Saint Paul Police Department had suddenly converged there at once. Men emerged from out of the blackness, wearing battle armor and pointing assault rifles directly at him. Ken slammed on the brakes and shifted the Ford into park. He put his hands on the dash as ordered, and said a silent prayer to Saint Oswald, Protector of the Idiots.

  He was roughly pulled from the pickup and shoved to the ground where he was cuffed. So many things were going through his mind that he nearly forgot to be afraid. Strong hands explored every inch of his body and Ken flushed with embarrassment.

  How long he laid there on the cold April concrete was anybody’s guess. Ken didn’t move as reality began to hit home. He was going to prison, he was sure of it. Ken was flooded with emotions and he fought back the tears that were welling up behind his blue eyes.

  “What do you have in the crates, Mr. Dahlgren?” asked an impossibly young, plain clothes officer.

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Sir, I’d like your permission to open those crates.”

  “Go jump in the lake.”

  Ken was told they would have a Search Warrant in five minutes and he was left lying on the pavement. From what he could see there were at least a dozen police officers on the scene. He was suddenly hauled to his feet by two burly officers. Ken was read his rights and seated in the back of a warm squad car. This can’t be happening, Ken thought to himself. Deep down Ken realized that he had been fortunate; half an hour ago he wasn’t sure that he’d survive the night. The only saving grace was the fact that he had a receipt for the rifles and the ammunition. That much had been legal; legal, right up to the point of being fully automatic.

  Ken stared out the window as the police radio squawked codes and static. A piece of paper was pressed to his window. “That’s our warrant, Mr. Dahlgren, we’ll be opening those crates now.” said a woman’s voice. The paper was held to the window for a few moments before the woman officer joined the party. Stamped on the back of her windbreaker was ATF. Ken swallowed hard. Patty is going to kill me.

  Although the car was parked fifty feet from the back of his pickup, Ken had a bird’s eye view of the scene as it unfolded. The crate of rifles, illuminated by the beams of half a dozen flashlights, sat on the tailgate of Ken’s Ford. The police looked like shadows as they opened the crate and removed the first of the rifles.

  Even from inside the idling police car, Ken could hear the unmistakable sound of laughter. The rifle was short and there was a long, banana-shaped tube at one end. Ken didn’t recognize the tube. More laughter, two unhappy looking men were hurrying towards the car. One of the men was carrying one of his guns, except the gun wasn’t what he’d paid for. He suddenly understood what the tube was for; the tube was for paintballs.

  Ken was hauled to his feet and the cuffs were removed. A well-dressed man of roughly his own age, stood before him, holding the toy gun. “Get out of here,” said the plain clothes officer to the uniform. “I want to have a few words with this clown.”

  “Yes sir,” said the uniformed officer. Ken watched him walk away and felt as if his knees might buckle.

  “You know what I think, Dahlgren?” he asked, handing the paintball gun to Ken. “I think you’re the luckiest son-of-a-bitch I’ve ever met. What the hell were you thinking? You could’ve been killed down here, and don’t you dare tell me that you drove down here for these. I know damn well that you were looking for automatic weapons. If you hadn’t been ripped off, I’d be locking you behind bars for the next twenty years. I hope you paid a ton of cash for these things. Now listen, go back to Crown, wherever the hell that is, and don’t ever let me catch you in Saint Paul, again. Do we understand each other? Take my advice: go home and thank God that you’re not dead or in lockup.”

  The drive home was made in silence, broken only by sporadic fits of laughter. Ken parked the pickup in the driveway and sighed. The lights were blazing in the windows. Ken had turned off his cell phone and had forgotten to turn it back on. Patty would be awake and she was going to be furious. Ken shook his head and got out of the Ford.

  He opened the door and there was Patty, sitting on the couch dressed in her bathrobe and pajamas. Her arms were crossed and she was staring out the picture window into the blackness. “So, did you have a good time?”

  Ken opened his mouth to speak, but Patty never gave him the opportunity. She was instantly on her feet and she was shouting. Patty never shouted. She circled him as he stood in the entryway, wagging a finger at him as if he were a little boy. Ken listened, his arms hanging limp at his sides. Patty continued with her tirade for nearly a minute, which felt like an hour to Ken. Finally, all shouted out, Patty leaned her head into her husband’s chest. She grabbed him in her arms and began to sob. “I was so worried about you,” she gasped. “Don’t you ever do that to me again.”

  Ken slept on the couch that night, but not until he’d replayed the night’s events over and over in his head a dozen times. The fact that he’d been swindled meant nothing, except that it’d saved him from a lengthy prison sentence. He should send the bald, tattooed man a thank-you card, Ken knew that. There would be no more talk of weapons, especially illegal ones. There would be no more nights like this.

  Ken would spend the next three nights on the couch, but the argument was over. Patty never asked where he’d been and he never volunteered the information. They soon fell back into their routine of running their failing business and purchasing supplies. Ken bought a water purifier, chuckling as he paid for the purchase. When the clerk looked at him like he’d lost his mind, Ken replied: “Long story, you wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”

  Weeks passed, the Dahlgren’s borrowed against the equity in their business to meet payroll. They continued to borrow from Peter to pay Paul, watching helplessly as everything slipped away. They ate their meals in silence, watching the national news between bites. The situation was growing worse every day. Companies once thought to be made of stone, dried up like so many tumbleweeds and were blown away by the winds of change. Ken sold his prized Corvette, which bought them another week of wages.

  Ken had put the entire gun incident behind him. There was simply no time to think about what might have been. He and Patty were putting in long hours and the strain was catching up with them. Patty was further taxed by her volunteer work at the Crown Senior Center.

  Laundry detergent suddenly tripled in price. Canned foods became scarce. The lines became noticeably longer.

  Ken didn’t recognize the phone number as it came up on his caller ID, but he certainly recognized the voice. “I’ve got your guns,” said the man. “Meet me at your business.”

  Ken began to speak but the bald man had already terminated the call. Ken checked his watch, Patty wouldn’t be home for nearly two hours, which was plenty of time for him to get back and stash the guns. What he didn’t understand was why the man had called in the first place. He’d happily written off the loss. This time he put the loaded .38 Smith & Wesson in the pocket of his sports jacket before leaving the house.

  The evening was warm and overcast, the highways were nearly clear as people huddled around their televisions for the beginning of primetime. Ken drove with the windows down, but that didn’t help him with the sweating. He grew more apprehensive with each passing mile. What the hell is going on? Why didn’t he just keep the guns?

  What the hell am I doing?

  The fear had returned in a great rush and it filled his belly with what felt like a gurgling volcano. Ken’s hands shook on the steering wheel and he needed to keep rubbing the sweat onto the knees of his blue jeans. By the time he turned the Ford into the driveway of his darkened machine shop, Ken’s heart felt as if it were going to explode. An unfamiliar van sat parked near the building and Ken eased his Ford in next to it.

  The bald man got out of the van and stood next to Ken’s open window. “How’s it goin’?” he asked, as if the two were old friends. K
en nodded and watched a pair of strangers exit the back of the van, pulling a heavy steel crate behind them.

  “I’m good,” said Ken. “Can I ask you what the hell happened the last time we met?”

  “You could, but all I can tell you is that I had no part in that. We were lucky, but that doesn’t excuse the bastards that tried to rip you off. I insisted that they make things right with you, I hope you don’t mind.”

  The men were now sliding the crate into the back of the truck. Ken shook his head. “I don’t mind.”

  “Looks like I’m going to need that water purifier sooner than I thought.”

  Ken chuckled, he couldn’t help himself. “That makes two of us,” he said, watching the men as they returned to the truck with the heavy crate of ammunition. He was about to say something else when all eyes turned to the driveway. A black Chevrolet pickup had slammed on the brakes and was speeding into the lot. Ken instantly recognized the truck as belonging to Jimmy Logan, a young man he employed that was more like a son. He’d want to know what was going on. “He works