by James Dargan
“Who are you?!” Dimissio then asked.
Randall had to think quickly: he couldn’t get caught by the cops or the Mob. He had to make his escape, and now. He would just have to leave one man alive.
Behind him was the two-way door to the kitchen. Randall fired three shots in Dimissio’s direction and made a run for it, through the door to the kitchen. Pots were boiling and pans sizzling with food still cooking in them, abandoned by the chefs when they heard gunfire. He ran through the kitchen to the back door. Outside, boxes, wooden crates and drums of oil were strewn across the yard.
“Don’t shoot!” a Chicano chef, huddled behind a dumpster, said as he saw Randall. The Mexican put his hands in the air. “Please, I have a young family!”
Randall stopped, glanced at the man, smiled, then continued his escape down the back alley.
Inside, Dimissio still thought his enemy was behind the corner:
“Are we gonna end this or what?!”
Patrol car 209 had now been joined by two others, with more on the way. Police Officer Christopher Biggins, along with his partner, Albert Washburne, pulled their guns out.
“What’s going on in there?” Biggins asked El Charro’s manager, Pablo Fuentes, across the street from the restaurant.
“Shots. Men down.”
Fuentes was well aware Quatrocchi Junior was connected to organized crime but had always turned a blind eye to it as he and his associates had always spent a fortune in the place.
“And who are you, sir?”
“Name’s Fuentes – I’m the manager of the El Charro.”
“What did you see?”
“Nothing. As soon as I heard firing I was outta there.”
“Bert, go with Church and Belling round the back.”
Back in El Charro’s, Dimissio was already at the window, realizing the shooter had split. Outside, seven police cars and more than a dozen cops had their guns pointed in his direction. A mile away, Captain Mitch Hoffman was on his way.
“Motherfuckers!” Dimissio screamed while smashing the window with his gun – shattering the plate glass - and fired two shots.
Dimissio retreated. He ran through the kitchen hoping to find his escape route: Opening the door to the back alley, he came across Officers Washburn, Church and Belling, who put a volley of lead into him.
RETROPECTIVE CAMPING
The hot sun. Gila monsters and the usual cacti that could prick you to death if the scorpions didn’t kill you first. And earth dry as a bone - drier than you could ever possibly imagine. This was what Randall was back to, like it had been two decades before when he had packed his young family up and headed west to the unknown. The Coronado National Forest was his favourite place on earth. He took a sip of water from his large canteen and walked down a steep hill, towards a small creek. His car was ten miles back, parked up. In his knapsack, he had the registration plates to it so that nobody would be able to trace the owner. Apart from the registration plates and a small pack of beef jerky, he was also carrying a pistol, a small Beretta 950, which he intended to use to good effect.
On and on he walked, under the midday sun until darkness fell. He didn’t have a lot of water left – for a day tops, but he didn’t need it for much longer anyway.
“Yeah, I think this place will do,” Randall muttered to himself.
To Randall’s left, the sun was setting behind Mount Wrightson, highest peak in the Santa Rita Mountains, and the sight took his breath away. He collected some fire wood and brush in the last of the light and made a campfire. There, under the stars, Randall could not help but think about the Apaches less than a century before, doing much the same. Man against the big beast of nature.
The sound of a twig snapping in the distance made Randall jump to his feet. Beretta in hand, he scanned the vicinity in the dying light. He knew the dangers of being out in the open in such a place: mountain lions and coyotes were never far away. He settled back down after that, ate his beef jerky and took out the bottle of vodka he had stashed in his knapsack. This would be his final ever drink – he had promised himself and his late wife that – minus the coke, this time, straight up, like it should be.
With the last drop remaining in the bottle, Randall poured the vodka on the ground and wished his wife, his two daughters, his new grandson, Devereux and the rest of his fallen colleagues at the Bayside City and Tucson police departments a good night. Then, with relief, placed the Italian pistol into his mouth and pulled the trigger.
THE END
About the Author
James Dargan was born in Birmingham, England, in 1974. Coming from an Irish background, he frequently writes about that experience. As well as England, he has also lived in the United States, Ireland, and - for the best part of fifteen years - in Warsaw, Poland, his home from home from home.