by J. L. Abramo
He went for the leg shackles first. Bent over, it was hard going without the light of the electrical storm above to help him find the miniscule opening. He was sixteen all over again, trying to figure out where to put his dick into Christine Tordello.
The light flashed and he took a mental picture of the hole in the shackles and jammed the key inside. But the light stayed. Bo looked up. Train.
The noise of the storm, the cottony muffle of his hearing from the shotgun blast and the probable concussion from his ride down the hill made him fail to notice the van had come to rest on a set of tracks at the bottom of the ridge, nor did he hear the sound of an approaching locomotive.
No time for what-ifs. This wasn’t a sprint to the end of the tunnel or a quick make-it-off-the-bridge moment in time. This was move-your-ass-or-get-squashed.
Bo turned to his right and took as long a stride as his leg shackles would allow which wasn’t much. It took three shuffling steps before he jumped out the back of the van which was blown open the way he’d seen photographs of cars in downtown Baghdad. Bo fell into a tangle of weeds and shrubs.
The train never saw the van. It ran through at full speed and took the van with it, a giant wad of gum stuck to the front of the engine. A dozen boxcars followed and helped push the broken bones of the van, with two dead corrections officers inside, for two miles down the track before it could stop.
Bo felt down to his ankles. He exhaled deeply. The key was still there in the lock. He undid his legs and then his wrists thinking, Fucking hard to be mellow when there’s a goddamn freight train two feet from your face.
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Here is a preview from Blacky Jaguar Against the Cool Clux Cult by Angel Luis Colón…
1
As good music was a potential remedy to violence, bad music was capable of inciting the bloodiest riots; of overthrowing entire empires. Bad classic rock? Why, that was reason enough to burn it all down to ash and salt the goddamn earth.
Blacky Jaguar always enjoyed planting a well-placed boot to the sternum of a loudmouth with a divergent musical opinion. Especially after taking a good punch—not many men could claim they stunned Blacky Jaguar. He relished in the throbbing pain from the knot on the side of his head as it grew from marble-sized to egg-sized, reveled in the twitch under his left eye, and the oh-so-familiar burning of raked flesh on his knuckles was heaven.
Violence, chaos—mother’s milk to a man like Blacky.
The five, no six or maybe seven—the double vision may have been setting in—assholes who’d decided Blacky didn’t look the type to worship at the altar of Creedance Clearwater Revival were taking their licks like righteous bastards. Blacky wasn’t fond of the American South—Tennessee being an egregious place that offended most of his remaining sensibilities—but damn if these boys didn’t know to scrap.
Blacky grinned, rubbed his bald head—he’d given up his beloved pompadour while on the lam—and sniffed. He wondered if he had a broken nose. Wonderful, he thought, pretty for prom. “All’s I asked was what the fuck they were even reviving? If anything, Fogerty sounds as if he’s strangling the music to death.”
The biggest one, a mean fella with a head to match Blacky’s but about as thick as three of the Irish bastard walked forward. He ignored his recently booted companion. “Now, it ain’t fair to be insulting the music round these parts. Especially a cultural institution.” He cracked his neck and strut—the sign of a man with something to prove.
Blacky spit. Noticed what came out was deep red instead of clear. He dragged his tongue along the back of his mouth and found the culprit, a freshly exposed hole where one of his molars should be. “Cultural fuckery-what? Don’t recall a CCR tune about giving your sister the knob.” Blacky spit again and frowned. He wondered if he swallowed the tooth since it didn’t appear to be on the floor.
Those thoughts were soon to be cut short since Blacky’s words hadn’t defused the situation; in fact it chucked a mortar into a pile of gasoline-soaked TNT.
Fists and bottles were thrown. Blood, spit, and beer stained the floor of the bar—it wasn’t much of a dive either, well, not until Blacky showed up. In fact, Blacky figured it was a chain bar with the amount of rubbish all over the walls. In between dealing blows to faces and taking blows to heads, he mulled over whether he could run off with a particularly fetching framed poster of Hank Williams that hung over the bar.
Blacky snatched a stool and tossed it at the group of rednecks as he backed away. No poster for now. He ran his forearm under his nose, sticky clotted blood leaving a trail from the top of his wrist to the crook of his elbow. The group backed away as well. A few of the bubbas looked fit to leave—no use fighting with a man like Blacky.
“Fucking nerve on this foreigner’s ass,” The head dumbass spouted.
“I got me papers.” Blacky thumbed a nostril closed and launched a bloody clot of snot onto the floor. “Fuck, doing a bit of tourism. A bar fight down south? On the list.” Blacky slipped a small note pad from his front jeans pocket. He flipped it open. “No fucking joke either. On a bit of a private tour.”
The rednecks stared in disbelief and then bemusement.
“He’s a fucking nut job,” one said.
Blacky held a hand up. “Right…right? Look. This is Tennessee?”
The head redneck stood a little straighter. “Gatlinburg proud.”
Blacky smirked. “Wonderful.” He flipped a few pages into the note pad and pulled a pen from his back pocket. “How far off is Graceland from here?”
The man recoiled as if someone farted. “What?”
“Fucking Graceland. Where Elvis lived, ate ludicrous sandwiches, and died on the commode. You know bloke with the hip swivel? Can’t imagine you love CCR so much as you’d forget the fucking King.” Blacky rocked on the heels of his Doc Martens.
“You joking?” The chief redneck walked forward. “You cause a ruckus and now you need motherfucking directions?” He shook his head. “Who the fuck you think you are?”
Blacky shrugged. “Ah, well, I figured we could all use the rest. I can beat the directions out of the lot of you if that’s what’s needed. Unless it’s your taste in music’s so shite that Elvis is something you’ve only heard uttered out of yer mum’s mouth when you were tossed out of the double-wide while she serviced the postman.”
This time the men all straightened. Their vigor renewed—fighting mad.
Blacky sighed and placed his memo pad and pen on the bar. He scanned the group. Pointed at a lanky kid—couldn’t have been older than 17. “Yer the one telling me how to get there when all’s said and done.”
The young one swallowed. His eyes darted back and forth.
The rest of the rednecks laughed and converged.
“Balls on this fucking guy,” one of them said.
Blacky only smiled.
The sun was peeking between the trees when Blacky stumbled out of the truck stop bar. He gingerly poked at the gash under his right eye and hissed. “Right fucking arseholes.” He walked over to a Ford F-150 parked across the way. The door was already unlocked, so he lifted himself up into the cab and closed it shut. Inside, he turned on the interior lights and examined his face. Not a bad collection of scrapes and soon-to-be bruises, but he needed to stitch himself up at some point. He examined his note pad and read the directions the lanky kid provided. Only took three broken fingers to get the poor child to sing him turn by turn directions.
Pleased with his evening, Blacky leaned down and pulled the bottom out of the steering column. He breathed easy; the car was pre-aught which meant it didn’t have the passive anti-theft system the newer models had. He put the truck into neutral and reached inside the column for a little switch.
The engine turned over with a happy roar.
“Atta girl.”
Blacky shifted the truck to drive and pulled out of the parking lot. Through his rear-view he saw the head red
neck running out of the bar, his arms akimbo and screaming. Blacky had maybe an hour of driving ahead of him before he had to ditch the truck, but the inconvenience at the cost of those CCR-loving assholes was more than worth it.
2
The SWAT team kicked down the door of Erica Ramos’s tiny, studio apartment and stormed inside all screams, gun oil odor, and shiny body armor. They were ready for war and she was mid-snore.
It was a hair shy of 4:00 AM and Erica was asleep on the couch, a late night session of poker and beer laid her to waste. She was still drunk as the head officer lifted her to her feet, shouting instructions that were unintelligible in the chaos. Erica’s stomach wasn’t as cooperative as her feet, though, and she let loose its contents all over the brand new boots of her arresting officers—not much of a relief since that would probably make things worse.
A half an hour later, Erica was at Geldington’s police precinct—three towns over from her apartment in Nillings for some reason—and seated to the side of a cranky officer with a vicious looking pair of black eyes. Erica did her best not to make eye contact. She wasn’t in the mood to have the deputy believe she was mocking or challenging him. That was a formula for being “looked over” as she rot in a jail cell for a few extra days before seeing a judge.
Of course, they had to push the usual bullshit questions. Everything to deflect that they had made the mistake. To toss Erica under the bus. No accounting for the fact that they came in like kids playing at Viking horde—all bluster and made up excuses.
Did she have any connection to the recent string of liquor store robberies downtown? She met the description of the driver in that case.
Come on, really? And driver? What she wasn’t good enough to actually be the perpetrator?
Did she know they found three ounces of marijuana in her bedroom?
In a studio apartment?
Was she selling marijuana?
Did she look like she was rolling in money?
How long was she living in town?
Her whole damn life. All it took was a little bit of typing to know that. Or, if things were so difficult, a quick peek at her wallet—which they had.
Did she have any weapons back at her apartment?
A few broadswords? Maybe nunchucks?
Of course, she couldn’t give those answers. She could only provide a string of ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ answers. The pot had to remain unstirred, still, congealing.
It was ultimately a no-win situation. Even when she had the right answer, Erica could see that it did not satisfy the officer in any way, shape, or form. No. They were seemingly out for blood and Erica had no idea why. She’d done nothing. Absolutely nothing. She tried so hard to hide her anger, to keep an edge out of her voice. Stay calm, collected; no shows of impatience or resistance. If not, things only got worse. These were facts of life. Worse yet; even when folks like her followed the ‘rules’ there were still no guarantees. It all boiled down to however the bastard on the free side of that table or desk felt at that particular moment.
“All I did was go out and hang out with a few friends. I got home and fell asleep,” she said, “Call my boss, Broderick Kimbo. He’ll tell you everything. He was there too. He was the designated driver.”
And what else had she done that day?
“Spent most of my day off watching TV. I swear I’m not interested in doing much of anything else on a day off.” Erica was insistent and as honest as she could be, but it didn’t seem to count for anything.
They held her in a small room for another few hours. She nodded off and when she woke up she was still alone. What could they believe he was responsible for? A whole SWAT team came to her house, why? She wasn’t some kind of crime lord or holding a hostage. Hell, she rarely left the house anymore. Erica had few friends and Broderick Kimbo was the only one she could count on, so she insisted on it. Brodie was a man about town—a small business owner with more sway than most black men in town. He’d given her a chance when so many others wouldn’t—even let her work in his barber shop washing heads and slowly learning the craft. She wasn’t entirely sold on chasing that beautician’s license, but it was honest work.
Three hours later, Erica was relieved to see she made the right call when Brodie walked into the room with a smirk a mile wide. There was a deputy behind him; stone-faced.
“Goddamn, girl. They came storming in like you were Bin Laden or El Chapo.” Brodie turned to the deputy. “You boys check to see if she had an armory?” He laughed.
The deputy didn’t offer anything more than a blink in response.
Brodie didn’t speak again until they were safely in his car and a few blocks away from the precinct house. He pulled his Cadillac Escalade over and sighed deep. Stared out at the street and the people milling around. There were kids playing catch up the block and an old lady yelling at them. When he first arrived in Nillings, it wasn’t that great of a spot. Economically depressed, clear racial borders and an almost non-existent small business presence. The past 15 years, though, were big. He’d made strides; found financial backers to help prop up the little town of 2,000. Things were looking a little better. He was glad to have played a part in that. Still, there seemed to be a stubborn element. The stain he couldn’t fucking wipe away.
This is why trouble for Erica bothered him so damn much.
“What the fuck happened?” Brodie finally asked. He wasn’t smiling anymore. His shoulders went stiff the way they always did when his patience was spent.
“No clue. But this is the exact same shit that happened a few weeks ago to Shawn and a few weeks before that to Taylor—anyone involved in last year. They came in and nearly blew his fucking head off. I was lucky to be sleeping.”
“You’re right.” Brodie frowned and tapped his steering wheel absent-mindedly. “This is getting out of hand. Got fucking SWAT teams, I heard they shut power down again over at the James Houses.”
Erica leaned her head back and stared at the sun visor in front of her. “Ain’t a fucking thing we can do—gotta eat more shit.”
Brodie scratched his beard. “Maybe. Look, I can move you to a new place for the time being. Keep you out of the fucking spotlight before the weekend.” He waved at nothing. “You keep it quiet for a little bit, at least until we wrap up current plans.”
Erica hated the idea of being uprooted. To give in to the harassment was like a punch to the chest—took the wind right out of her. “Man, this ain’t right.” On top of it all; the fucking weekend. She was dreading the weekend.
“Absolutely, but you have a lot to worry about. I need you to be safe and to keep your shit straight, you know? Last thing we need is the media getting wind of you almost getting locked up after last year.”
Erica rubbed her temples. A little while back she’d been an idiot drinking in a public park with friends a few towns over. Her girlfriend of three years had left her and she needed a place away from home to drown her sorrows. Unfortunately, three deputies found her actions to be deplorable enough to beat Erica within an inch of her life. Had she talked back? Yes. Did she shove one of the troopers? Yes. Did they leave her with two broken legs, a smashed eye socket, and one less finger? Indeed they did. She was lucky. An acquaintance in the group, Charles, caught a bullet in the back. That guy was living in a wheelchair last Erica heard—even moved up north thanks to the never-ending death threats after he received his settlement from the city.
Erica wished he’d been as wise. No, she decided to stay, to keep living her life in spite of the death threats and dirty looks. She wasn’t about to give up on the only place she ever called home—no matter how ugly it treated her. Erica became embroiled in a legal battle and then, thanks to Brodie, the face of her town’s movement against police brutality. There was a target painted on her back and the backs of anyone in the community that had the nerve to stand with her. At first, that didn’t worry Erica. She believed in her cause and believed that what happened was a severe overreach of power. As time passed, as the harassme
nt became more common, as the money she was promised drained away, Erica wondered if she wasn’t headed for a severe breakdown. How much more could she possibly handle?
“Maybe I need to get the hell out of here for good. I got family in Maryland or up in Boston.” Erica rubbed the back of her neck. “I got a little extra cash squirreled away. Damn sure I can find a job at a salon. I could make a good living.”
“Fuck Boston.” Brodie raised a finger. “What the fuck makes you think it would be better anywhere else? You can’t run. Gotta stand and fight.”
“Says you; the man with enough money to pay for respect out here.”
“Don’t get all fucking pious on me, Erica. This mess bothers me and I feel for the folks getting harassed, but you and I both know this bullshit is a pack of little mama’s boys on the internet. Shit, had my power cut off last week as a prank, I ain’t running for the hills.”
Erica didn’t believe that. These attacks felt too personal. “Don’t feel like pranks. It’s gotta be someone with the state troopers. They fucking hate me. Probably think I’m gonna sue them next.”
“Nah.” Brodie shook his head. “If they really wanted to do you damage, they’d have found a gun or something worse than a little weed on you. I know it ain’t the same everywhere, but Sheriff Burns is a semi-decent woman. It ain’t easy doing what she does around these parts—especially as a female. Folks are all relatively happy here, well, except when shit like this is happening.” Brodie shrugged.
Erica rolled her eyes. “Yeah, you and the Sheriff. The good friends.”
Brodie rolled down his car window and leaned his arm on the frame. “If I wasn’t sure of her intent, I wouldn’t say it. We knew each other long before my ass ever came to this town. Sheriff Burns says her people ain’t doing it, I believe her.”