Pavement

by Andrew Davie

  Ermano wiped his forehead on his sleeve. The room smelled raw and feral, with the overpowering scent of copper. He calmed his breathing.

  The man would probably burst into the room shooting. Ermano would wait by the door, then he’d get him.

  Ermano wiped more blood from his face and walked toward the entrance.

  The knife shot out from under the bed and into his foot. Ermano didn’t even feel it at first, then toppled forward as an incredible pain flew up his leg.

  Nothing comes back to me, McGill had said.

  No loose ends.

  Gropper knew he’d see the faces of the girls in his sleep for a long time. Wide-eyed, they were pleading with him. Faces fixed in the extreme terror of those who know their end is coming soon. He looked away, so he wouldn’t have to see them. He heard the muted conversation taking place above him.

  The kid trying to buy time, to prolong his life for a few more moments. Gropper knew he was dead before he began speaking. Then, the Latino laughed, the sudden shift and creaking of bed springs. Gropper felt the tremors of the knife sticking the kid. He heard his labored breathing as the life bled out of him. Then the Latino moved from the bed and addressed the girls.

  He was a pro, but he was clearly a psychopath. So, Gropper would wait until he was in full transformation. Then the guy might be more prone to making a mistake. Gropper watched the first girl be plucked from the floor, then heard her get tenderized with the push knife. She thudded against the wall, and her feet tap-danced against the floor, while the man held her in the air. He was strong and full of adrenaline.

  Gropper took the folding Karambit knife, opened it, and waited. It was a curved blade, like a crescent, and Gropper had honed the edge.

  The man continued his assault on the second girl until well after she was dead. Gropper watched her feet shake and then go slack. The man threw her to the ground with more ardor than before. The man’s breathing was audible. He crossed by the bed, and Gropper sliced his foot. The man grunted and fell forward. Gropper rolled out from under the bed.

  He turned, and they faced each other. The man started laughing and reached down to remove a second push knife from his belt buckle. He came forward, putting weight on his bad foot, and stumbled. Gropper lunged with his own blade and swung twice, missing the first time, but slicing the man’s forearm on the second attempt. The man gritted his teeth, dropped a knife, and let fly an expletive before backing away to regroup.

  Gropper didn’t give him any quarter.

  He moved forward. Even at an advanced age, the man struck with complex balletic moves. The first one missed, the second cut Gropper on his forehead. He reset himself. They were both breathing heavily now, and he knew fights like these would deteriorate soon to less finesse and more blunt attacks.

  The man feinted with a shot and blocked Gropper’s attack. He stuck Gropper in the stomach. He ripped the knife up, expecting Gropper to wither and drop. Instead, the man’s look of victory faded as Gropper stuck him between the ribs. Gropper twisted the knife, and the man’s face imploded. He gurgled forth a breath. Gropper dropped the body on the ground and placed his Karambit in the hands of one of the prostitutes.

  Gropper turned just in time to see the flash go off.

  The man smiled and held the phone outstretched as his thumb maneuvered along the screen.

  “Buena suerte,” the man said, then the light left his eyes. Gropper took the phone from the man’s hand and pocketed it.

  He took off his shirt, removed the duct tape, and sliced phone book from his stomach. He took off his surgical gloves and placed everything in a garbage bag. Once outside, he threw the garbage bag in the trunk and got in the car. He caught his breath sitting behind the steering wheel.

  He took the phone out and scrolled through the photographs. The last two were of Gropper. Odds were they had just been sent. Gropper put the phone in the glove compartment.

  He started the car and drove away.

  Hector was at the beach when the call came. He didn’t say anything, just listened as the voice of the other man, his ranking superior, admonished him for screwing up what was supposed to be an easy job.

  Hector knew it would be pointless to make excuses or try to dissuade the man. His only source of comfort came from the fact he’d received the phone call in the first place, and not two shots in the back of the skull. The phone meant there was a way out for him. A chance to correct his mistake. It would cost him, certainly, and there would be no more second chances after this.

  He groveled a bit, as was expected of him, made the concessions they knew he’d make to appease them, then stated he’d finally take care of this problem.

  Hector hung up. He pushed the camera icon and stared at the photo of the man who had caused him so much grief.

  Luz dove into the pool and broke his concentration. He put the phone down and returned to the pool. He sat on the edge as she swam over.

  “Everything all right?” she asked.

  “Fine, just some minor work troubles.”

  Hector slid off the edge and into the cool water. He would make the arrangements in a moment. It might take a while for them to track down their mystery man, but Hector would put his full resources into it this time.

  He’d underestimated his foe, a mistake he would not make again.

  “Hi, my name is Stacy, and I’m an addict.”

  “Hi Stacy,” the group said.

  She played with the Styrofoam coffee cup in her hand. The church basement smelled of mildew and stale cigarettes even though they didn’t let anyone smoke inside. She had been clean for a few days now, but every hour was still a struggle. Janice was with a relative who’d agreed to watch her. Stacy wasn’t fit to be anyone’s mother, but she could be a cousin. That was fine.

  She still couldn’t bring herself to talk about what had happened, or even say Maurice’s name, but she vowed to stay clean for him.

  The nightmares still caused her to wake screaming, covered in fetid sweat. It would take a few moments to realize it was a dream, then the torrents would open, and she would wail. Maurice’s face would be an after image forever burned into her memory.

  She did her best to go to as many meetings as she could. She met with a grief counselor. She was humble now and that was a good start.

  Her sponsor had told her that in time all wounds heal, even the ones that aren’t physical. If you let them. Don’t linger in the past, and let the dead bury the dead. Her sponsor’s bedside manner left a lot to be desired, but she spoke the truth. Stacy would make it through this, as she had so many other things in her life.

  The nightmares would leave. It would just take some time.

  She listened to the group go from person to person, relating their stories and what wisdom they’d picked up over time. Eventually, they joined hands, said the inspirational message they always did to close out meetings, and dispersed quietly. Outside, Stacy lit a cigarette and sat down on the steps leading to the church. It was somewhat disorienting to feel like she had nowhere to be.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  Stacy hadn’t noticed the man until she heard him. It was a little disconcerting, his appearance out of thin air, but he didn’t seem threatening.

  “Not at all.”

  He sat down on the same step a few feet away. She took a drag and waited for him to say something, but he didn’t. A minute went by, and she felt herself relaxing to in his presence. She felt safe. It was a strange feeling.

  She had seen him at the meetings. He sat in the back and kept to himself.

  “My father was a big scotch drinker,” the man said. He stared straight ahead.

  “I never liked the stuff. It was always too bitter.” He continued, “My old man would laugh, and tell me eventually it turned sweet if you drank enough of it. I wonder if endurance works the same way.”

  The man faced her now.

  “My name is Gropper.”

  “Stacy,” s
he said.

  “If you need anything, I’ll be around.”

  The emotions came pretty quickly. She wasn’t expecting them. She closed her eyes and nodded. When she opened her eyes, he was already gone.

  McGill had just forked pecan pie into his mouth when Carmine arrived. He was escorted by a guy twice his size whose jerky movements suggested he dabbled in pharmaceuticals. He had full-sleeve tattoos and could barely fit through the door. Carmine spotted McGill, smiled, and rubbed his chest.

  Carmine sat down in the booth while his muscle lingered by the door.

  “So,” Carmine said.

  McGill sat back and wiped his mouth.

  “What? Nothing smart to say now?”

  “Let me tell you how this is going to work, so you don’t get your hopes up.” McGill sneered.

  “Oh, please,” Carmine said.

  “You’re assuming because you brought man-mountain there, I’m going to shit my pants.”

  “Something like that.”

  “I’m guessing you paid them pretty well.” McGill killed his Mickey’s.

  “Two for two so far. When does this get good?”

  “Patience.”

  Carmine put his hands up. He had all the time in the world.

  McGill took another bite of pecan pie. He savored this one and chewed until it was almost a paste.

  “Now, to disappoint you.” McGill wiped his mouth. “You ever hear the quotation, ‘I am the punishment of God. If you had not committed great sins, God would not have sent a punishment like me upon you’?”

  “No. The Bible?” Carmine said.

  “Genghis Khan.”

  “You really like to talk, don’t you?”

  “A few years ago, Gropper came to me with a problem. Seems he pissed off some important people, and they wanted him dead. These were people who would not be placated.” McGill forked the rest of his pie into his mouth and chewed. He chased it with coffee. Carmine tried to look in control, but he was skittish around the eyes, and he drummed his fingers on the table.

  “I gave him the means, and he vanished. He was gone for about a year. I told him he didn’t owe me anything, but he feels obligated.”

  McGill took another sip of coffee.

  Carmine began to look annoyed.

  “And your fucking point?”

  “My point?”

  McGill gestured back to where Carmine’s muscle had been. Gropper stood there instead. The legs of the man-mountain jutted out from behind a booth near the door.

  Carmine exhaled. He licked his lips and turned back to McGill.

  “Okay,” he offered as if he were admiring a decent golf drive. Carmine looked from Gropper to McGill.

  “You can come back with all the help you want. Pay them however much you want.” McGill pointed toward Gropper. “Just remember, I have the punishment of God.”

  Carmine’s hand went to reach inside his jacket, probably where he kept a piece, but he hesitated. His body sagged; a gesture which suggested he knew he had lost this one. He slid out of the booth. McGill watched him help lift his friend from the booth. The man’s size made it awkward. Gropper took the now-vacant seat across from McGill. The waiter brought over coffee for Gropper and another Mickey’s.

  Things had been quiet since the dust settled at the motel. Gropper flexed his hand once and took a sip of his coffee. The slaughter had been in the papers for two days, then the interest died down. It was still an open case, but the Cuban had been a pro, so Gropper was certain all leads would dead end. He kept tabs on the cousin, and she wasn’t going to look into anything, content to move on with her life. She wouldn’t be a loose end.

  “Have you heard back?” Gropper said.

  “I have.” McGill took the piece of paper from his pocket and slid it across the table.

  “Guy’s name is Hector Rodriguez.”

  Gropper opened the paper, memorized the information, and slid it back to McGill.

  “You sure you want to do this?” McGill asked.

  Gropper didn’t say anything.

  “Just thought I’d ask,” McGill said.

  “If things go south…” Gropper said.

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  Gropper had arranged for McGill to spread his assets among John and Ms. Bradley. He would also wipe his identity clean to avoid any blowback.

  “I should be back in a few days,” Gropper said. McGill sneered.

  “Have a piece of pie before you go.”

  Gropper paused for a second and then said, “Sure.”

  McGill signaled the waiter and McGill ordered another two slices of pecan pie.

  The two men ate in silence.

  Gropper sat on the stool watching the dance floor in the reflection of the mirror above the bar. The place was packed. South Beach on a Saturday night. The neon and strobe kept the shadows dancing on the floor, and the smell of the fog machine permeated the air. He stayed focused on the VIP enclave on the second floor and watched Hector pouring drinks.

  Off to the sides stood some large men in suits. Probably a mix of those who worked at the club, as well as Hector’s personal guard.

  “Another?” the bartender asked. One of three working, they made sure to keep the customers occupied. She was a bronzed blonde with zero fat on her body.

  “Yeah,” Gropper said.

  She went away and returned with his whiskey. He drank it back, then shut his eyes and blocked out the sound of the music, the conversations, everything happening around him, until time slowed to a crawl.

  At some point, Hector would leave to use the bathroom.

  One bodyguard would go with him, the others would remain by the velvet rope. Gropper decided to head to the bathroom and take out the bodyguard. Hector would probably have a piece, but he was not a killer. He was soft, used to having other people do the dirty work, and it would be his undoing. Gropper would make it fast and effective. He rolled the newspaper in his hands. They might still come for him and McGill, but this would slow them down.

  Gropper ordered one more drink.

  He watched Hector rise and head for the bathroom. Gropper stood up and gripped the Millwall brick in his hand.

  He reached into his pocket and pressed the button on the device. He’d rigged a smoke bomb near the entrance. It would only take a minute to set off the sprinklers and fire alarm. The staff would be forced to evacuate the patrons.

  Gropper hugged the edge of the dance floor, keeping close to the bar. He navigated through people until he made his way toward the stairs. Eyeing Hector as he and his subordinate disappeared around the corner, Gropper climbed the stairs toward the bathroom.

  Around the corner, the carpeting muffled some of the sound from the dance floor, but it was still loud enough. The bodyguard stood outside of the bathroom door. He was instantly alert to Gropper’s presence. The man saw the brick, sensed something amiss, and went for his own weapon. The element of surprise gone, Gropper charged. The bodyguard was fast but underestimated Gropper’s speed. His expandable baton snapped open, but Gropper hit the man’s wrist with the brick, and it flew to the ground. The bodyguard unloaded a punch and kick combination which he probably worked time and time again in the gym.

  But this wasn’t the gym.

  Gropper blocked the man’s left hook, then hit the man with the brick. The guy staggered back, and Gropper hit him twice more. The guy careened into the wall and passed out on the floor. The brick had begun to lose some of its effectiveness, so Gropper traded it for the baton.

  Pushing the bathroom door open, Gropper spotted Hector at the sink, checking himself in the mirror. He did a double take when he saw Gropper.

  “Chinga,” Hector said.

  His tone was one more of awe than fear.

  Hector reached for his piece. Gropper threw the baton. Hector blocked it with his forearm, but Gropper was already on him.

  Gropper assumed a wrist lock on the gun hand and flipp
ed Hector onto the ground. Hector wheezed as the air was knocked out of him. Gropper snapped the wrist, took the piece, removed the clip. Hector’s scream reverberated around the walls. Gropper threw the gun into one of the toilets and the clip into another. Hector had gotten to his knees and was holding his wrist.

  He was tougher than Gropper originally pegged him for.

  “You can’t kill me,” Hector said through gritted teeth.

  “No?”

  “It’d be suicide.”

  Gropper stood in front of him.

  “I’ve had worse trouble.”

  The fire alarm went off. Hector made a move for the door. Gropper was already in front of him. The bravado now gone, Hector tried to escape farther into the bathroom. He made it to the wall, near the urinals, and yelled.

  Gropper punched him twice, then smashed his head into the porcelain rim of the urinal. The vibrations passed through Hector’s body as it shook, then went flaccid. Gropper landed a shot to the base of the skull and checked for a pulse. He couldn’t fine one. Gropper walked to the entrance and opened the door. The barrel of a gun emerged through the entrance as another bodyguard tried to gain tactical advantage. Gropper put his shoulder into it, and knocked the man backward. The weapon fired twice and bullets pinged off the tiles. Gropper made it out of the bathroom as the bodyguard tried to reset the weapon.

  Gropper hit the man and swept his legs out. The man fell with a thud and was stunned.

  Gropper moved quickly, past the still unconscious first bodyguard. The crowd had swelled and funneled through the exits. Gropper was sped down the stairs, merging effortlessly with the crowd, and walked out into the humid air.

  His car was where he had parked it, a few blocks away.

  He steadied his breathing and waited for his heart to slow. He turned the key in the ignition, and the motor came alive. Gropper eased out into the street toward the highway.