by Larry Enmon
“Slow down. Don’t crowd him. I want him parked. Hand me that joint.”
Billy took a right into the driveway of the seventies-era house and pulled under the carport. He switched off the bike and un-straddled it. As he turned, Alonzo pushed the Car-15 out the window. Aimed. Pulled the trigger.
The bolt slammed forward with a “snap.”
Misfire.
“Shit!”
Alonzo sprang from the backseat, racked another round in the chamber, and aimed again.
Billy didn’t wait. He bolted for the yard gate, reaching for the 9mm in his back waistband. When he shoved the gate open, he turned and sent two shots that missed Alonzo’s head by inches. Alonzo, not to be out done, squeezed the trigger again. Five rounds of .223 raced toward Billy. He ducked going into the backyard just in time. Wood from the gate splintered into a hundred pieces and showered him.
Alonzo ran up the driveway and kicked the gate open. Just then two bikers with pistols rushed out of Billy’s back door into the yard. Alonzo dropped them with another dozen rounds. Billy stuck his head from around the side of the house. He fired several shots, again missing. A ricochet hit a brick, and a flying chip cut into Alonzo’s neck. Assuming he’d been shot, he screamed and charged Billy, firing from the hip.
Apparently a kamikaze charge from a screaming Mexican gangster unhinged poor Billy. He scampered over the fence into his neighbor’s backyard. Alonzo jumped on top of the AC unit. He leveled the assault rifle and squeezed off several more rounds. Dirt flew around Billy as he ran. Billy swung back and fired another couple of wild shots. He stumbled over a tricycle but got up and kept running. Alonzo cursed himself with every breath for missing. He jumped the side fence just as Billy jumped the front fence of his neighbor’s house. Alonzo swung the weapon over the top. He had Billy in his sights as he ran across the neighbor’s front yard. Alonzo pulled the trigger. But the frigging bolt had locked back. Empty.
“Shit!”
Alonzo bound over the fence and gave chase. He pulled his .357 from his pocket. Billy ran down the middle of the street with Alonzo in pursuit. They exchanged shots, with neither coming close to the other. Dogs barked, people fled, and cars stopped—except one.
The sound of its engine revving up behind him sent waves of panic through Alonzo. He jerked his head around and, realizing the danger, dove to the left. The car, going forty-five miles an hour, hit Billy and ran him slap over. After dragging him another thirty yards, it backed up and Billy rolled out, his neck completely twisted. He lay on his stomach, but his dead eyes stared at the sky. Half his long hair had been scalped off and hung by a small piece of hide. His clothes were tattered, and where he’d been dragged, blood stained the pavement.
Alonzo shuddered with disgust. Looked like the Predator had skinned him.
With sirens screaming in the distance, Alonzo ran to the vehicle that killed Billy.
Loro smiled from behind the steering wheel. That impish look, with the streaked green, blue, and yellow hair, and a joint hanging from the corner of his mouth. Alonzo hopped in beside him.
“You are one crazy parrot.”
11
Rob and Frank coasted up to Sarge’s. They hadn’t eaten there in almost a week. In Rob’s opinion, going a week without grabbing a bite from their favorite lunch place was unconscionable.
When Sergeant Jimmy Bielstein retired from the Dallas Police Department five years ago, he’d followed his dream. Sunk half his retirement into a hole-in-the-wall space around the corner from the bus station downtown. After a year’s work, Sarge’s was open for business. Sarge, as everyone called him, ran the place with his wife, Jan. Because of its proximity to the Lew Sterrett Criminal Justice Center and the downtown courts, it got a lot of lawyer, prosecutor, and plainclothes cop business.
It was a great bar, but Sarge also made sandwiches all day, every day, and they were the best. Always used Honey Baked Hams. The other draw, the Cokes. Being an old vice cop, Sarge figured having a drink with lunch helped take the edge off the day and made you more productive. He had a standing rule. If you ordered a Coke, you got Coke. If you requested a cherry Coke, a shot of bourbon found its way into the glass. Order a vanilla Coke, and somehow vodka appeared. Plainclothes cops on duty could order only one, and uniforms weren’t allowed any. Although the worst kept secret since Elton John came out, no one asked any questions. Just playing along seemed like the best plan.
A couple of minutes past eleven, they strolled in and Rob spotted his old homicide pal, Paul Sims. He already had a sandwich in one hand and a Coke of unknown origin in the other.
“Hey guys, join me,” Sims said, motioning with his head.
They grabbed a couple of stools beside him. Jan looked up from her prep work slicing up lemons. “What will you have?”
“The usual,” Rob answered, which meant two ham sandwiches and two cherry Cokes. God, his mouth was already watering.
Sims wiped a dab of Dijon mustard off his lip with the napkin. “Getting ready to shoot you two a call.” He took another big bite, filling his mouth with so much sandwich he couldn’t talk.
“Why?” Rob asked. He wanted Sims to say he’d already solved the thing. Something about the way this case was heading gave Rob an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his belly. The sooner it was over the better.
Sims chewed a second and took a sip of Coke. “Guess who just got hit?”
Rob shrugged. “I give up. Madonna? Oprah? Doctor Phil?”
“Billy Henderson,” Sims said. “Couple of Mexicans ran him over like a scum-sucking dog right in front of his house. Figure some of Ricardo’s people were behind it. They hated each other.” Sims pulled the crust from a slice of bread and dropped it on his plate. “Before getting run down, Henderson and an unknown suspect had a running gun battle down the street. Bullets hit a house and several cars in the neighborhood. That should piss off the brass.”
Rob grunted. Yeah, that would piss off everyone. Gang violence spilling into quiet neighborhoods always did.
“Anything else on the Ricardo killing?” Frank asked.
Sims stopped chewing. “Waiting on forensics.”
Sarge stepped from the men’s room around the corner. He’d just turned sixty-six, but looked ten years younger. The thick blond hair on the big guy gave him a Viking look. Even though he was retired, Sarge always knew what went on in the department before the chief.
“Hey, how’s the case going?”
“Still working it,” Rob replied.
They got their sandwiches and Cokes. Everyone ate in silence, watching the early news on the TV over the bar. Reporters were interviewing terrorized neighbors in Henderson’s neighborhood.
Sims finished his food first. “Hey, Frank. I did get one piece of information you might be interested in.” He dropped the napkin on the empty plate and stood. “Finally able to interview the two gangster bodyguards at Ricardo’s place. Both said they were watching porn on TV when the door opened and something hit them in the face like confetti. One caught a glimpse of a red-haired woman traipsing up the stairs. Next thing he knew he woke up in the ambulance. Guess you didn’t imagine her after all.”
Sims laid a ten on the bar and released a huge belch. “Thanks, Sarge.”
“Hard to believe they didn’t bother locking the doors at Ricardo’s,” Rob said.
Sims fished a piece of candy from his pocket and popped it into his mouth. “According to them, the doors were locked—front and back. You guys said they were unlocked when you arrived, right?”
Frank sat his Coke down and half turned. “Yeah, I went in the back and Rob through the front—both unlocked.”
Sims shrugged then walked toward the door. Over his shoulder he mumbled. “Guess the redhead unlocked ’em. Wonder who gave her the key?”
Frank picked at the sandwich—didn’t seem hungry. He gazed at his plate without blinking. He’d drifted off again, his mind doing a walk-about, probably trying to sort through the puzzle. Rob didn’t understand t
hese trances. But to Frank they were like a nap. After each one he usually came back a little stronger with something profound to say. After a couple of minutes Frank spoke.
“Been pondering what you said on the way here,” Frank said. “If Edna got wind of my suspicions about Dr. Hawkins being the red-haired woman, she would freak out. I’ll know more after the interview. I suppose I could have been mistaken, but I’d have bet a month’s pay.”
Rob nodded. Well, nothing all that profound here, but Rob understood. Frank had a reputation of thinking too much. Cops are trained to act. Not Frank. His mind wouldn’t allow it.
Movement from the bar mirror caught Rob’s attention. A forty-something black woman strolled through the front door.
Oh, hell, Vivian!
Vivian Johnson showed up about once a week looking for her husband, Detective J.T. Johnson. Their marriage was a country-western song—“Good Hearted Woman in Love with a Good Timing Man.” Rob had known J.T. since they worked SWAT together years ago. He was a handsome fellow. As most people age, they sag a bit in the face and put on a few pounds, especially around the middle. Not J.T. The detective had a little graying on the sides but was slimmer and better looking with each passing year. Bastard.
“Uh-oh,” Sarge said.
Frank froze his hands on his cherry Coke and frowned while eying Vivian in the bar mirror. “Everyone remain perfectly still.”
Vivian’s presence wouldn’t ordinarily have disturbed the earth’s orbit, but today was different. Her husband sat in one of the rear booths with his new girlfriend. He had a different one every month or so—kind of hard to keep up with. Today he was so enthralled by their conversation, holding her hand across the table, he’d not noticed his wife enter.
Vivian wobbled passed Rob and Frank. Rob caught a strong whiff of liquor breath as she scanned the bar stools near them and turned her attention to the back booths. She knew J.T. played around and made a hobby of trying to catch him every chance she got. But she had a different look today—a disturbed, crazy look.
“This won’t be pretty,” Frank whispered.
As he got the words out, she spotted J.T. He chose that exact moment to look up. His smile disappeared and he straightened in the booth, dropping the woman’s hand like it was a venomous snake. The young lady, probably wondering what had happened, turned around. When she and Vivian locked eyes, that lit the fuse.
“You son of a bitch!” Vivian screamed.
As the drama played out, everyone froze. Frank had been right—not going to be pretty.
J.T. stood and held out his hands in the stop position. His mouth was open, ready to explain.
Vivian wasn’t having any of that. She’d decided to escalate a little … well, a lot. Staggering backward a step or two, she opened her purse and scratched around in it for something. Tears flowed down her cheeks and muted curses drifted from her lips. When she pulled out the gun, everyone went to ground. The lawyers, closest to the front and back doors, bolted outside carrying their drinks with them. The cops at the bar vaulted over it to the cover of the other side. Other patrons in nearby booths dove for the floor.
J.T.’s mouth moved in an explanation, but no words came out. His eyes were opened so wide you’d have thought the daughter of Satan had come calling.
Vivian staggered forward waving the pistol at him—crying as if she’d lost her best friend.
Everyone in the place knew about their problems, and while cops made up almost half the crowd, not one pulled their weapon. Nobody wanted to kill another cop’s wife—bad luck. Especially when J.T. was the one who needed shooting. He’d been messing around on that poor girl since the day they’d said “I do.”
Complete silence filled the small bar as Vivian closed the distance.
J.T., probably feeling the breeze from the wings of the angel of death hovering over him, dropped his hands and bolted into the men’s room to his left. His date followed. That’s when the first shot rang out. In the small narrow space it sounded like a cannon going off. Bottles on the bar rattled. Rob had just his eyes above the top of the bar. Oh, hell.
Sarge hunkered down with the rest behind the bar and yelled, “Don’t hit the mirror!”
Frank sat behind the bar with his back against the wall. Somehow in the confusion he’d managed to retrieve his Coke and bourbon before jumping over. He sipped it and didn’t appear too concerned. He gave Rob a “so what” look.
Rob bugged his eyes at Frank in a show of displeasure because of Frank’s lack of worry.
Rob peeked over the top of the bar again as Vivian approached the men’s room door. Her hand shook and she whimpered soft sounds. She was so unsteady on the high heels she might topple over any minute. Must have realized this, because she kicked them off as she aimed at the door.
Sarge began dialing his cell.
“Who ya calling?” Rob asked.
“Who do you think? The police!”
Rob snatched the phone from Sarge as the next shot sounded. Vivian swayed, emitting more curses with each breath. As gun smoke filled the air, she screamed something about J.T.’s two-timing ways. She aimed down the sights and squeezed off another round into the door. Rob looked at Frank. He stared back and held up three fingers.
Someone in the back screamed, “Stay down J.T. She means to kill you for sure this time.”
Rob spoke into the phone as the nine-one-one operator answered. “There’s a shooting in progress at Sarge’s. Send units, but don’t attempt to enter. Detectives are on the scene, and we’ll handle it.”
Rob handed Sarge back his phone and said, “If the uniforms bust in, they’ll smoke her. They don’t understand the situation.”
Vivian appeared to have trouble cocking the pistol but somehow managed it. The fourth shot drilled into the men’s room door. During a brief pause in the action, a couple of other patrons took the opportunity to slip out.
Sarge grumbled, “I’m going to have to replace that damn door.”
Vivian again took aim and fired. Then she bent at the waist, resting her hands on her knees, and wails of crying filled the place.
Frank registered the event with five fingers. He stood and sat his empty glass on the bar. Rob joined him and they paced toward Vivian. She didn’t notice them at first. Eyes clouded with tears and head down, she mumbled incoherently. When Rob and Frank were about ten feet away, she raised the pistol, pointed it in their direction, and cocked it. Her lips still moved, but nothing came out.
They stopped. Rob raised his hands. “What? You’re going to shoot us, now?” he asked.
Vivian cut loose with another bout of crying. Sirens wailed in the distance. The uniforms would be here any second. If they didn’t get the word not to come in, Vivian would be dead soon. Uniforms hate people with guns—makes ’em nervous. Vivian getting shot wasn’t acceptable.
Frank held back so as to not crowd her. Rob took one careful step at a time. He extended his hand.
“Give me the gun.”
She cried and wiped her nose with her free hand but kept the pistol trained on him. “Stay, back!” she screamed. The gun was cocked and ready. Her shoulders shook with each sob and her mascara-streaked cheek gave her a wild look. Rob glanced out the front door. The first patrol car pulled up, lights still flashing. Sirens screamed in the distance. Soon the parking lot would be full of police.
Rob moved closer, motioning with his palm. “Vivian, for God’s sake give me the pistol.”
Frank must have realized the danger, because he marched to the door and put his badge up to the glass for the arriving officers to see—effectively blocking their view of what was going on inside, giving Rob a chance.
“Come on—the gun, right here,” Rob held out his hand palm up, moving his fingers back and forth.
J.T., never a good one for timing, stuck his head out of the men’s room door. When Vivian glimpsed him, she swung the pistol in his direction and pulled the trigger—snap.
Rob rushed her and wrestled it from her grip. Un
armed, she collapsed into a pitiful heap, sprawling on the floor, bawling. Rob gently lifted her and let her cry a few seconds on his shoulder before walking her to the door. Frank opened it for the uniforms and they escorted her to the waiting patrol car.
Patron’s heads began popping up like moles in a yard. Sarge poured a shot of vodka and strolled around the bar. He downed the glass and said, “That’s either the bravest, or stupidest thing I’ve seen since leaving the force.”
“Both,” Frank said, walking back to the bar.
Rob meandered to the men’s room and said, “Don’t shoot, J.T., I’m coming in.” With that he pushed open the splintered door and stuck his head inside. “It’s safe to come out.” Rob walked back to the bar.
Sarge’s hand still shook as he poured another drink. “You guys took a big chance.”
Frank picked up his glass, crunched the remaining ice, and then slammed it back down on the bar. “Not that big. Chief’s Special .38. Only holds five rounds.”
Most of the customers stuck around and finished their lunch. Sarge tried to make amends by offering everyone who’d witnessed the drama a drink on the house. Most everybody knew that weird things sometimes happened at Sarge’s. But that was the charm of the place. If you preferred less excitement, there were dozens of other places to eat and drink.
When Rob and Frank strolled back into CIU, Terry motioned them into his office. “Did you hear? Billy Henderson just got killed. Shot up the whole damn neighborhood. The sixth floor has called a supervisor’s conference.”
“We heard,” Rob said. The incident with Vivian had unsettled Rob more than he realized. Watching a woman try and kill her husband sent Rob to thinking about Carmen. She’d never hurt herself. Would she? He’d tried calling and texting, but got no response. Hopefully just taking a nap. Just in case, he’d leave early today.
Terry reached for a file on his desk and flipped it open. “Read your report, Frank—the interview with Levern.”
Frank didn’t respond, moving his feet shoulder width apart and crossing his arms.