All In A Day's Work

by Gary Resnikoff

  Charlie didn’t see or hear Tim’s response.

  “That jerk,” Tim said to the other mechanics. “He’s been ripping people off on all sorts of things. I noticed a few tickets where he was padding the labor by twenty percent. Everybody he does work for is complaining. Might be time for us to look for a new shop to work at. I wouldn’t be surprised if he lost the payroll money last night at cards.”

  “Yeah. But he did look kind of sick,” responded one of the other mechanics.

  “What’s sick is us staying at this shop.”

  Charlie pulled out of the driveway and immediately started feeling better. He changed his mind about going home. What was the point? He lived in a run-down, one-bedroom bungalow that was as depressing as the shop. And, worst of all, he realized there was nothing there to drink, anyway.

  There was a run-down biker bar named Mud Flats just outside of town that he had visited a few times. Aptly-named, Mud Flats seemed to always have a muddy parking lot. Something about water dripping off the side of the mountain and pooling in the lot around the building that just never dried up. The topless dancers weren’t the highest quality, but the drinks were cheap. And best of all, it was unlikely that he would bump into any of his customers there.

  The lot was half-full when he pulled in and parked. Decent crowd for this time of day, he thought, even for a Friday. He entered the building and made a beeline to the bar. Partial to Jack Daniels since he’d started working at Daniels Automotive, he ordered a double shot and a beer chaser. The shot went down quick and easy as he chased it with a chug of beer. The concerns about his business and all the complaints started to ease as he asked for another shot of JD. Just what the doctor ordered, he thought. The magic elixir.

  The failing shop was all his fault, but he couldn’t admit it. As far as he was concerned, it was the guys cheating him at cards. If they had played fair, he wouldn’t be in this mess. The fuckers had cheated him and were putting him out of business. What he needed was a way to get even. But first, he needed to figure out how they were cheating him.

  Charlie was still adjusting to the dim lights in the bar, but he could see at least twenty or thirty people scattered around. Mostly men and mostly leering at the girls on the runway. A few were tossing dollar bills onto the stage, watching the girls bend over to pick up the money. Between him and the runway was a group of bikers in leather jackets, knocking down beers like water.

  Another double shot and a beer, and the panic was gone. The pain had been washed away by the alcohol, and all he thought about were the girls on the stage. His love life had been a mess since he took over the shop, and he hadn’t been with a woman in weeks. The girls on the stage were looking better and better, but he needed to get closer to have a better view. He grabbed his beer off the counter and headed toward the runway and an empty seat. The lack of food and volume of liquor had affected him more than he’d realized and he nearly stumbled getting off his bar stool. Catching his balance, he chided himself for being clumsy.

  “Whoa, settle down, cowboy,” he said with a giggle.

  He steadied himself and resumed his trek to the runway. He was mesmerized by a girl spinning around on a pole on the stage. He couldn’t take his eyes or mind off her as he staggered toward the stage. He thought she might have just winked at him. A little female attention was what the doctor ordered, he decided. She was like a siren calling him, and he was more than willing to obey.

  Because his focus was on the dancer, he never saw the chair blocking his way. He stumbled but was able to regain his balance before hitting the floor. The other patrons weren’t amused.

  “Damn, who put that there?” he said, looking at the chair that tripped him. “People need to be more careful about where they put those things.” He turned quickly around to resume his trek to the runway and the girl of his dreams, but this time, ran into a table occupied by some bikers. Beers and cocktails flew every which way, drenching a couple of bikers.

  “What the fuck?” said a large man dressed in black leather with some demon-like character emblazoned on his back, as he unsuccessfully tried to escape a beer shower. “You asshole!” hollered the drenched biker who was easily over six feet tall and a solid two-hundred-and-fifty pounds of muscle. His face was covered in pockmarks and a three-inch scar from just below his eye to his chin. To finish off his imposing look, he had a skull tattoo on his neck. Charlie was a scrawny five-foot-ten in shoes, weighed one-hundred-and-fifty pounds wet, and was dwarfed by the demon man.

  To make matters worse, Demon Man, in an effort to dodge the flying beer, jumped, and in doing so, bumped the table behind him. More beer spilled; more bikers got drenched.

  “Oops, did I do that?” Charlie laughed, not comprehending the situation he had just put himself in.

  No one was amused by his lame attempt at humor. Both tables of bikers were now on their feet, glaring menacingly at Charlie.

  “Hey, dick-wad. What the fuck’s the matter with you?” fumed Demon Man.

  He considered a clever comeback, but in a brief moment of clarity, decided to try to defuse the situation. “Sorry. It was an accident. Let me buy you another beer. In fact, let me buy you all another drink.”

  Demon Man wasn’t about to accept the apology, and he didn’t need a free beer. “Sorry ain’t good enough, shithead. Look at this.” He pointed to the mess. “Who let this fuck in here?” He said to no one in particular.

  On his best day, Charlie was no match against even the smallest biker at the table—let alone Demon Man—but with courage and stupidity fueled by too much alcohol and desperation over his business problems, he lost all caution. His earlier euphoria was quickly replaced with anger.

  He flipped him off and mouthed the words, fuck you.

  Without warning, two of the bikers grabbed Charlie from behind and lifted him off his feet. Demon Man stepped forward and punched Charlie in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Charlie struggled to get his breath and briefly thought he would never breathe again. The bikers dropped him to the floor, and he squirmed around, trying to take in oxygen. The fight should have ended with the one punch, but the bikers weren’t done with him. The bartender, not wanting trouble in the bar, told the men to take the argument outside. The bikers complied and lifted Charlie back onto his feet and “helped” him out the door. Once outside, they took turns kicking and punching him. He was helpless to block any of the blows and was soon bloody and bruised. They dragged him to a mud puddle at the edge of the dirt parking lot and dropped him into it. He was caked in mud, and the bikers just laughed and called him names.

  Finally able to draw a breath, Charlie pulled himself up onto his hands and knees. He looked up and saw everyone laughing at him and briefly considered letting them have their laugh. Maybe they would leave him alone now and go back inside. It would have been the smart thing to do. But Charlie had never been accused of doing the smart thing. The beating had sobered him up a little, but that only increased his anger. As the bikers turned to walk away, Charlie sprang to his feet with surprising agility. Letting out a feral scream, Charlie got up from the ground and ran full-speed at Demon Man. Caught unawares by the attack, Demon Man went down to the ground. Charlie could have and should have turned and ran, but instead, he towered over the biker and yelled down to him, “How do you like me now, fuckhead?”

  The other bikers, at first shocked by the drunken man’s brazen act, started to laugh. But the laughter only lasted for a moment and was replaced by anger. They suddenly moved as one and were on Charlie before he could protect himself. Incensed that someone would dare attack one of their own, they pummeled Charlie mercilessly. When Demon Man got off the ground, his compadres held Charlie while he took his turn, leveling blow after blow. Had it not been for the bikers holding him up, Charlie would have been on the ground long before Demon Man could have his way with him. Finally, when Demon Man had his fill, and his temper was abated, he told his companions to let him go. Charlie fell with a thud to the ground, nearly unconscio
us. A couple of bikers gave him one last kick before heading back into the bar, laughing.

  Charlie, bloody and weak, could hear their laughter. He stayed on the ground for the next ten minutes, trying to compose himself and regain some strength. As his strength returned, he took inventory of his injuries. He had bruises from head to toe and noticed he was missing two front teeth, and he was sure his nose was broken. Trying to rise off the ground, everything started to spin, and he dropped back to his knees and vomited; a couple of broken teeth mixed in. It took a few more minutes to compose himself enough to stand without retching again. Looking around, he saw that he was now alone. Probably time to leave, he decided. Stumbling back to his truck, he spied a row of choppers. His muddled mind told him he should offer the bikers a little payback of his own. He picked up the biggest rock he could carry, took it to his truck, and drove over to the bikes and parked next to them. Leaving the truck engine running, he exited the truck and took the rock with him. One by one, he busted the headlights and brake lights on each bike. When he was done with that, he walked over to the first bike in the line and shoved it with his boot. He watched with satisfaction as each bike toppled to the ground. Realizing that the noise might bring the bikers out, he snapped back to reality, ran back to his truck, and drove off.

  Looking in his rearview mirror, he saw that no one was following him yet. Maybe with the loud music in the bar, they hadn’t heard the commotion outside. His eyes veered away from the bar that was receding in the mirror to a face that shocked him. The face looking back at him was unrecognizable. He briefly considered a visit to the emergency room, but instead, convinced himself that if he got home okay, he would be fine. Frequent glances in the rearview mirror satisfied him that he wasn’t being followed, and when he reached home, he was sure he was now safe. The only regret he had was that he wouldn’t see their faces when they saw the damage he had inflicted on their bikes. He would have to let his imagination suffice.

  He parked his truck inside the garage and quickly closed the garage door. Although he was sure he wasn’t followed, he wasn’t taking any chances. Pain was now coming in waves from every conceivable part of his body. He sat and waited for the current wave of pain to subside. Remembering he had some painkillers left over from a recent root canal, he made his way into his house. The instructions on the bottle said to take one every six hours and to avoid alcohol. He downed three pills with a beer and followed it with a few hits off an unfinished roach in the ashtray. The combination of drugs, beer, and weed provided enough relief; he was out cold within minutes and would stay that way well into the night.

  At 12 PM, the Revengers readied themselves for their evening’s work. Wearing their black outfits, they tested their communication system, while the man confirmed everything they would need was in the duffle bags. Satisfied that everything was in order, they set out on their latest mission.

  The victim’s house was on a quiet, sparsely-populated cul de sac on the east side of town. They parked around the corner from his house and separated, testing their communication system once more as they made their way to the house. The man arrived first and made a quick pass from the front. It was dark and appeared deserted; trash and old car parts littered the yard. The woman came through an open field behind the house and entered the backyard.

  “Front looks clear. Lights are out in the house,” the man radioed to his partner.

  “Looks dark inside, too,” she replied.

  “Hold tight; I’m going to check the garage for his truck.” The man crept up to the garage window on the side of the house and could just make out the outlines of the truck. “His truck is in the garage. Check to see if there is any movement in the house.”

  The woman moved toward the back patio, careful not to trip on any of the trash in the yard, and looked in through the glass sliding door. She could see Charlie passed out on the couch.

  “I see him on the couch,” she whispered. “I think he might be sleeping.”

  “Alright,” he whispered back, “I’m going in now. Watch for any movement.”

  The man opened the garage door enough to slide under. Once inside, he quietly closed the door behind him. The garage reeked of old oil and grease, making it difficult to breathe. He carefully made his way to the door that led from the garage into the house and gently tested the doorknob. It was unlocked. Relieved that he wouldn’t need the lock-release gun he carried in his duffle bag, he started into the house, but paused to grab a claw hammer he’d spotted on the workbench. Thinking it was always better to use a weapon owned by the victim, rather than one of his own, he picked it up. So far, so good, he thought.

  The floor creaked under his weight as he stepped into the hallway, but the intended victim didn’t hear it. The man slowly advanced to the living room in the dark, careful not to make any other sounds. Through the dark room, he could just make out his partners’ silhouette. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he could see the mess of pills, beer, and a joint on the coffee table. He couldn’t see the cuts and bruises on Charlie’s face, but he could hear his labored breathing. Not leaving anything to chance, the man struck quickly and brutally. The first blow of the hammer on Charlie’s head eliminated any chance of a struggle. The sound of the hammer hitting Charlie’s skull startled the man. He had hoped to just knock him unconscious while they carried out the rest of their plan. Blood flowed quickly down the victim’s face and onto the couch. The killers were wearing paper booties and surgical gloves, but he still worried about the mess that the blood was making. He checked Charlie for a pulse and was mildly pleased to find one—however faint it was.

  “Done,” he said to his accomplice and went to the door to let her in.

  She stared at the wound on Charlie’s head with a ghoulish fascination.

  “Is he dead? He sure looks dead,” she commented.

  “No, he has a pulse.”

  She pointed to the bruises all over his face. “Did you do that?”

  “Not the stuff on his face; he was already like that when I came in. I hit him with this hammer, though.”

  “Wow. Looks like he got into a fight with a bear. Hit him again, and let’s get out of here.”

  “No. That isn’t the plan. We stick to the plan,” he replied.

  “Fine,” she replied, taking another look at the bloody hole in Charlie’s head.

  The man noticed how intently the woman was staring at Charlie. He wasn’t squeamish, but he didn’t obsess, either. The killing and the method each had a purpose. It was all part of his plan, but he didn’t take any perverse satisfaction in the killing, either. Was she starting to enjoy the killing? He remembered how she couldn’t take her eyes off Lane Stevens when he was choking on his own vomit. Could her fascination with the killings become a problem at some point? He loved her, but he wouldn’t allow her to derail his plans. He snapped his fingers to get her attention. Begrudgingly, she tore her eyes away from the body.

  “What?” she asked quietly.

  “Are you okay? We need to keep moving.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You take his legs, and let’s carry him to the garage,” he instructed her.

  Charlie was lighter than he’d expected, and they had no problem getting him to the garage. But they left a trail of blood that the woman kept stepping in. She slipped twice and almost fell but recovered each time. They set him down next to his truck, and he opened the door. Lifting him up into the driver’s seat proved to be much more difficult than he had imagined. There wasn’t much room for them to maneuver between the truck and the workbench, but after a few tries, they had him propped in the seat. Blood was everywhere. Concern flashed across the man’s mind. They would have to destroy all their clothing when they returned home.

  When they had finally positioned Charlie in the driver’s seat the way they wanted him, they duct-taped his arms and hands to the steering wheel. His head slumped over onto his chest, so they taped his head to the head rest, so it looked like he was alert and drivin
g. Just in case he woke up, they gagged and taped his mouth. Satisfied that Charlie was in the right position, the man wiped off his gloved hands, searched through his duffle bag, and pulled out a plastic baggie with a pre-printed note. He took the note out of the baggie and attached the note to Charlie’s forehead with a piece of duct tape. And, just to send another message to the cops, he took a few blonde hairs out of another baggie and placed them both on the seat next to Charlie and on his shirt. They couldn’t miss them if they tried.

  “Go inside and get the truck keys. I saw them on the coffee table,” he told the woman.

  A few minutes later, she returned and handed him the keys. He reached around Charlie, inserted the key into the ignition, and started the engine. It came to life and idled just fast enough not to stall. He jumped down from the truck and closed the door. Carbon dioxide fumes started to fill the garage.

  Almost in a trance, the woman watched quietly. Finally, she commented, “It looks like he’s driving off somewhere.”

  The man rolled his eyes. The exhaust fumes were already starting to bother him.

  “Let’s go.”

  Chapter Eight

  “One must either take an interest in the human situation or else parade before the void.”

  —Jean Rostand

  “Good morning, Denver. You’re listening to the Consumer Champion show on KNRR radio. I’m Bob Jackson, and as always, I’m here with my colleague, George Patterson, at the control booth. I hope you all had a great weekend. I know I did.”

  Jackson described his weekend at his mountain cabin in great detail, all the way down to the fish he’d caught and how he’d cooked it. Of course, there was also a tall tale about the inimitable one that got away. Always bigger than the ones he’d caught.

  After what seemed like an eternity to Steve and Julia, Jackson pivoted. “Enough about that; let’s get the show started. I know you have plenty of problems to share with us, and we only have three hours to solve them all. For those of you who are new to our show, we are here to solve your problems and expose shoddy contractors and rip-off artists. In many cases, these are actual criminals, since they are willingly and knowingly ripping you off. As far as I’m concerned, if someone rips you off because they are crooks or just incompetent, I want to bring them down. One way or another, we promise to get you some satisfaction. All right, enough of that; let’s get started. George, who’s on first?”