by Joe Ide
Sidero fired off a couple of shots. BOOOMMMM! BOOOMMM! More like explosions than gunshots, the gun bucking so hard he couldn’t control it. The first chipped a big chunk off a random boulder. The second killed an angel lounging in the clouds.
The raw power delighted the onlookers. Oh, shit! That fucking thing’s a cannon! Gimme a turn, I want to shoot it. You could knock down a synagogue with that bad boy. Dwight stood well apart from the others. It seemed deliberate. Him in his fancy suit and shiny shoes, everybody else in T-shirts and jeans. He looked like Sonny Corleone at a skateboard park. He was firing a .44 mag with one hand, the heavy recoil hardly affecting him. He shot rapidly, the clanks from the metal targets telling you he didn’t miss. He held another gun at his side.
Hugo drove up in an open jeep and skittered to a halt, kicking up a shower of dirt. Angus was manning a machine gun mounted on the roll bar, a gun Isaiah had never seen before. It was shorter and more compact than the conventional machine gun and the barrel was stubbier. It looked like a lesser cousin or last year’s model except for the ammo belts feeding into both sides of the breech. The way the Starks whooped and cheered you’d have thought it was an Abrams battle tank. Isaiah wondered why until the realization swept over him and his mouth fell open. No, it couldn’t be.
Angus stood up. “Gather round, boys and girls. This is what I’ve been telling you about.” He wheeled the weapon back and forth, grinning with pride. “This is the M134 Minigun. Six rotating barrels, forty-four-hundred-round magazine, three thousand rounds per minute. That’s fifty rounds a fucking second!” More cheers and woo-hoos.
There was nothing mini about Angus’s new toy. It was the modern version of the Gatling gun. Most military machine guns were gas operated, recoiled with every shot and maxed out around five hundred rounds per minute and nine or ten shots per second. The guns were air- or water-cooled but could still overheat, getting hot enough for the gun to fire without pulling the trigger. To keep the weapon at operating temperature, the gunner had to control the number of rounds in a given amount of time.
Inside the Mini’s stubby barrel were six smaller rotating barrels that didn’t overheat, had virtually no recoil, and with a 4,400-round magazine firing at fifty rounds per second, the 7.6mm supersonic armor-piercing rounds came at you in a continuous stream. Because the gun was more stable, it was far more accurate than a conventional machine gun and at a longer range. The Mini was something you’d see mounted on a Black Hawk or an armored vehicle. This was no street weapon, it was ordnance. It wasn’t designed to kill people; it was meant to decimate them wholesale, to bust down walls, slash through sandbags, annihilate bunkers and kill your whole fucking battalion.
Angus swung the gun toward the target area, laughed like a ghoul and opened up. Isaiah had never in his life seen a weapon perform like this. At first, it didn’t seem that impressive because it was quieter than a conventional machine gun but the rate of gunfire was cartoon fast, the spent shells like brass popcorn, ejected into the air and spilling onto the ground. Not one target escaped, all of them were hit multiple times in a cataclysmic salvo of lead. Anything wooden was blown apart, explosions of dirt on the hill behind them, the metal targets swinging wildly, clanging like church bells on meth, echoing through the hills, apeshit and celebratory. The shooting stopped, a cloud of smoke drifting over the range, Angus was sweating and grinning. The Starks burst into cheers, high-fiving and throwing their fists in the air.
“This baby is for the Sinaloa cartel,” he shouted. “They were the highest bidder, and are you ready for it? A millllion bucks! On one sale for one fucking gun! Fuck you, Lok! Do you hear me? And bonuses for everybody!” There were cheers and shouts, beer bottles raised to the sky, more high fives and fist bumps and excited laughter all around. Angus saw Isaiah and took a deep breath.
Angus, Dwight, and Isaiah gathered under the metal roof. The others were packing away their guns and picking up the shell casings. Sidero was nearby, messing with the Deagle, something wrong with it, sliding the ejector back and forth.
Angus said, “Are you still fucking around with that piece of junk? A useless gun if there ever was one.”
“It’s a great gun,” Sidero puzzled. “What are you talking about?”
Angus snatched the Deagle away and hefted it in his hand. “Look at this piece of shit. It weighs five goddamn pounds. What are you gonna do with it? Put it in a holster and you’ll tilt to one side. You need a fucking golf cart to carry it around.” Angus tossed the gun away.
“I like it,” Sidero said, like he was surprised anyone would think otherwise. He must have known it was the wrong thing to say because he took a step backward.
“You like it?” Angus said. “You like it? You like a gun that isn’t good for anything but killing redwoods? What the fuck is wrong with you? You’re dumber than I ever thought possible.” Angus stepped closer, Sidero retreating, still with his palms out. He glanced at the redhead; arms folded across her chest, lips pursed, glaring as if to say, stand up to him, don’t take that shit. Momentarily, that steeled him. He stopped, straightened up and looked Angus in the eye. “I like the gun, okay?”
“What’s this?” Angus said, sneering. “You think you’re a man now, you sniveling little shit?” He gave Sidero a two-handed shove that sent him stumbling back.
“Leave him alone, Angus,” the redhead said.
“Shut up, you cunt,” Angus replied. “Why don’t you go home and bake a pie?”
Sidero tried to stand tall but he was clearly afraid. Angus shoved him again. He staggered backward and fell to the ground. Everybody was staring agog at Angus’s cruelty and Sidero’s cowardice. The redhead was storming away with her fists clenched by her side.
Angus stood over him. “I asked you a goddamn question, you useless fuck. Do you think you’re a man now? Answer me!” Sidero was resting back on his elbows, looking at his boots. He was breathing heavily, eyes like flaming cauldrons, boiling over with hate. “That’s what I thought,” Angus said. “Get out of here.” Sidero got up and walked away. He got to his truck, the redhead inside, angry and disappointed, the red of her face matching her hair. They drove away shouting at each other.
The others dispersed, probably wondering what Isaiah was wondering. What could Sidero have possibly done to deserve such venom? This obviously wasn’t about the Deagle or manhood. Something else was at work.
“Well?” Angus said. “What’s going on?” Isaiah had remembered a conversation with Dodson about the East Side Longos and how they were all packing new Berettas.
“The guns that went missing?” Isaiah said. “Dwight stole them.”
Dwight’s head went back in surprise. He scoffed and said, “Me? You’re full of shit. I never got them and Sidero never did either. Like I said, Tyler must have fucked something up with the sellers.”
“Tyler didn’t fuck up,” Angus said. “He never fucked up.”
“Tyler wasn’t perfect, okay?” Dwight said. “And maybe the shipment never got here or maybe they’re in Tyler’s house.”
“They’re not in his house or anywhere on the property,” Isaiah said, keeping a straight face while he lied. “I was there. I searched everything.” That drew a look from Angus. “And Tyler didn’t handle the inventory,” Isaiah said. “You did, Dwight.”
“Bullshit,” he said. “It was probably the sellers. Those assholes are always trying to screw us.”
“No, Dwight,” Isaiah said evenly. If he raised his voice, they’d start yelling over each other like the pundits on CNN. “You stole the guns and then you sold them.”
Dwight huffed. “You’re making shit up. And even if I did steal them how would you know?”
Isaiah remembered what Dodson had told him. “The East Side Longos,” Isaiah said. “That’s what they’re packing now. Brand-new Beretta, PX4 Compacts. All twenty or so gang members with the same gun. How did that happen, Dwight? A coincidence?” Dwight was caught. He had his hands on his hips and was looking at the ground.
“There’s more,” Isaiah said. “You hired the killers, Dwight. You had Tyler murdered.”
Dwight reacted with what seemed like real outrage. “What? What a load of bullshit! I didn’t like the guy and I’m glad he’s gone but that doesn’t mean I had him killed.”
Isaiah said, “The night he was killed he told Christiana he was upset about something. He said someone had disappointed him and he’d have to tell Angus and things would be bad. He was talking about you. He caught you stealing the guns.”
Angus had reached some other level of anger. The veins in his neck were like whipcords in bas-relief. He wasn’t so much trembling as he was vibrating at a frequency so high you could almost hear it. He stepped toward Dwight, flexing his liver-spotted hands, readying to strangle him.
“I stole the guns, okay?” Dwight confessed. “And Tyler busted me, but he said he wouldn’t tell you if I paid for them. He gave me six months to come up with the money. I have half of it already. I can show it to you if you want.”
“Show me money in a bank account?” Angus huffed. “What the fuck does that prove, you piece of shit? Who knows what else you’ve stolen from me!”
Isaiah went on. “There was another reason why you had Tyler killed.”
“I didn’t have him killed!” Dwight shouted.
“You didn’t just dislike him. You hated him. You hated him more than anything.”
It was Dwight’s turn to be furious. His smug face sharpened into chisels, his eyes, glowing meteors burning through the stratosphere. He glared bitterly at Angus, who was glaring back the same way.
“Fuck yeah, I hated Tyler,” Dwight said. “I worked my ass off for all those years and what happens? Tyler is a goddamn partner and I’m still getting a paycheck! He was wonder boy and I was nothing, a goddamn flunky. Yeah, I get to be the idiot who takes all the risks, driving around in the middle of the fucking night with a pile of guns in the truck, scared I’ll get pulled over and hoping Sidero doesn’t do something stupid.” Dwight stepped forward and poked a finger into Angus’s ossified chest.
“Want to hear another perk?” Dwight said. “I get to meet the customers. The Latino gangs, the black gangs, the Asian gangs—the cartels too. One of their sales reps showed me his chain saw. A Black & Decker about ten feet long. He said they had a barbecue and he sawed a cow in half while it was still alive.” Dwight nodded furiously, poking harder. “Yeah, that’s the kind of shit I have to deal—wait, I’m forgetting something. Oh, yeah, the Russians. Do you know those guys? They dress like Stallone in the first Rocky movie and call themselves Odessa. Really nice people. They’ll kill you for parting your hair on the wrong side.” Dwight smiled sardonically. “But they’re good businessmen, I gotta give ’em that.”
He went on. “Let’s say you’re a hooker in Vegas and you fuck a high roller and make yourself ten grand. You keep five hundred, the pimp gets seven-fifty, Odessa gets fifty-five hundred, and the thirty-two fifty left over gets sent to Moscow. And who’s it addressed to? Vladimir Putin! Yeah, that crazy asshole who throws you in jail for mispronouncing his name and then kills you with a poison dart. That’s who I have to deal with, Angus! And did I tell you I get threats all the time? These motherfuckers know where I live, what car I drive, what bars I drink at. One day there was an envelope on my windshield. I thought it was a parking ticket. You know what it was? A picture of Jenn with her eyes blacked out. How’s that for a fucking message? And where is Tyler all this time? Sitting in his mansion getting his dick sucked by a movie star and drinking champagne with you.” Dwight was so close to Angus they were breathing on each other. Angus didn’t move, fierce and implacable. “Did I hate Tyler?” Dwight growled. “You’re goddamn fucking right I did, but I didn’t have him killed.”
“You cheated me and you lied,” Angus said. “Why should I believe you now?”
“Because if I had anybody killed, it wouldn’t be Tyler.” Dwight’s face was gnarled with a rabid, unquenchable hatred. “It would be you.” One moment, Dwight was standing there bare-handed and in the next, the stiletto’s needle-sharp tip was pressed just under Angus’s right eye. Isaiah didn’t move. Angus had lost his bluster and was standing absolutely still, trembling, eyes cast down at the stiletto and breathing harshly through his nose. This wasn’t a bluff. Dwight was homicidal.
“What else, Angus?” Dwight said. “Any more insults? Huh? Any more criticism? Any other names you wanna call me? Me, the guy who makes the money for you? What’s the matter? Am I making you nervous? Maybe dock my paycheck, Angus. Yeah, teach me a lesson. Cut me down to nothing like you do all the fucking time.” Dwight pressed the tip in harder, blood running down Angus’s cheek, mixing with the rivulets of sweat. Angus drew in a breath and pulled his head back, but Dwight grabbed him by the jaw and put the stiletto in his mouth. Angus said something but he might have been gagging, his tongue was bloody. There was nothing Isaiah or anyone could do. Stabbing Angus would take a millisecond. “Too bad Tyler’s not here,” Dwight said. “Wonder Boy to the rescue. But he’s not here, Angus. There’s only fucking me!” Dwight raised his elbow, about to ram the stiletto down Angus’s throat. Angus let out a gargled scream—
“Don’t,” Hugo said. He was aiming the Deagle at Dwight. He was calm, in his element, a confrontation with a gun was what he lived for. “Drop the knife. Just drop it. You know I’ll shoot you and won’t think a thing of it.”
Dwight hesitated. His eyes flared with defiance. He put the stiletto back in its scabbard. Hugo abruptly handed the Deagle to Isaiah. “You know how to use it? I’ve got things to do.” Angus gave Hugo an awkward nod of thanks and Hugo walked away.
As the adrenaline dissipated and everyone caught their breath, Isaiah set the gun down on a shooter’s table and wiped the sweat off his face with his forearm. He was stupefied by Angus and people like him. If only Angus had treated Dwight with the slightest hint of care and consideration this would not have happened. This would not have happened. He would not have had a stiletto stuck in his mouth by his own employee and he would not have been scared shitless and spitting up blood and vomiting like he was now. How could he not see that? Angus thought the only way to control people was power, because the opposite of power was weakness. He thought only about threats and sanctions. If you don’t do what I say bad shit will happen to you. The problem was that as soon as you couldn’t carry out those threats and enforce those sanctions, even for a short time, the people you were controlling turned on you just like Dwight had done. What Angus didn’t understand was that you didn’t have to exert your power, even if you had it, and that didn’t make you weak. It made you a leader.
People aren’t afraid of leaders, they follow their leaders because they know they are fair and knowledgeable and respectful and the leader has shown them that he acts in everyone’s interests and takes care with their dignity. Angus was a tyrant who’d created a nest of vipers and now he was outraged because one he’d been stepping on for years and years wanted to sink its fangs into his neck and surprise, surprise.
The encounter had drained Dwight of emotion, Angus too. They looked like two dead palm trees. Isaiah was exhausted. Nobody spoke. Angus took a deep breath and said blankly, “Go back to work.” Dwight stood there a moment, then turned and walked away.
“Big risk,” Isaiah said.
Angus’s voice was crusty. There was blood around his mouth like he’d been eating fresh roadkill. “Nah,” he said. “What’s he going to do without me? He’d be on the streets or locked up on death row and he knows it.”
Don’t ever lose your leverage, Isaiah thought, not even for a moment, unless you want another stiletto stuck in your mouth. Angus was stupid and would always be so.
The old man glowered at Isaiah, pale, his sweat pink with b
lood. “Well, that was a fucking bust,” he said. “You’re supposed to be smart and the best you can do is this crap? I’m starting to think you’re as dumb as Sidero.”
Isaiah’s frustration boiled over. “I have nothing to go on! Not a goddamn thing and you know it! You want to fire me, Angus? Because I’m dumb? Because I’m a nimrod? Do it! Put Dwight on the case or one of your half-ass Nazis! See if they can do better. Come on, Angus, hand me my fucking pink slip!”
“My daughter’s got a record, did you know that?” Angus said. “Marlene stabbed a cocktail waitress. Bertrand hit some guy with a golf club and fractured his jaw. It cost me a shitload of money to get them out of that. Can you imagine how a jury would see it? A spoiled rich kid who thinks the law doesn’t apply to her, and even if she gets off with involuntary manslaughter she’ll be in prison until she’s a goddamn senior citizen.”
Angus was skinny and old but terrifying nonetheless because he didn’t bluff. He’d tortured his own daughter and smashing Stella’s future would be nothing at all. The old man’s eyes had gone colorless and runny. He hated and feared Isaiah. If Isaiah failed he’d deprive him of atonement.
“Now you listen, you useless fuck,” Angus snarled. “Time is running out. You get my kid out of this, do you hear me? Do you? Because if you don’t, I’ll turn the Starks loose on your girlfriend and they’ll do more than break her hands. And you’ll be next.”
Isaiah was apoplectic with rage, this evil bastard moving him around like a human pawn, keeping him away from Grace, making him do things and face dangers that could get him killed. Angus had no right. He had no fucking right.
“Are you trying to intimidate me?” Isaiah said. “Because I’ve dealt with assholes that make you look like Winnie-the-Fucking-Pooh. You say you’re gonna break Stella’s hands? Then get ready to have your own stomped into kindling. You won’t be able to pull a trigger, pick up a butter knife or wipe your bony ass. You say I’m next? That time is running out? My time is your time, old man.” Isaiah moved close so Angus could feel his ferocity, smell the fever on his breath.