The Hitman: Dirty Rotters

  Sally made us dinner.

  The steaks were cooked to perfection, the potatoes were whipped smooth and creamy, and the red wine was cold. I hate wine, but I kept my mouth shut. Since we got back to her house, neither one of us made much conversation, actually. My thoughts were jailed beside my friend, who was surely going to spend a very long time behind bars. It had started to bother me more by the minute. Not even the juicy steaks could take my mind off it.

  After dinner I tried to help Sally clean up, but she shuffled me out of the kitchen and insisted that I relax. So I did. I slumped back down on the green sofa and didn’t get up. I stared blankly at the fireplace, which was not even on. I replayed the conversation with Angelo over and over in my head. I saw him sitting in the cell, alone and afraid. I saw him walking down the street dragging a bag of empty bottles with a smile. I saw him fifty years old sitting down on a hard bed with brick walls and steel bars holding him hostage eating bologna sandwiches.

  The word justice kept coming to mind.

  Justice for Pamela.

  Justice for Angelo.

  Justice for me.

  Sally sat down in the chair in front of me. “Want it on?”

  “Huh?” I snapped out of it.

  “The fireplace. You’re just staring at it. I do that sometimes too, but only when there’s flames.”

  “No, I was just thinking. Thanks though. Unless you want it on.”

  “I don’t. It’s not cold in here.” Sally looked at me as if she had something to say. But she kept quiet.

  So I said, “Tell me about Pamela.”

  “Are you sure you really want to know?”

  I nodded. I took a deep breath, mentally prepared myself for the worst, and told her to give it to me.

  Three words later her voice died away and I sat as if alone, blankly staring at her moving lips. Three words left me breathless. Three words put my heart inside a blender. Three words allowed my worst nightmares to come to life. Three words was all it took for me to want to die as well.

  I closed my eyes. Barely felt the tears. Barely felt anything.

  Pamela’s face, smiling bright, hair blowing gently across from the wind, alluring eyes staring at me from inches away, sun setting behind casting her with a shimmering outline, began to fade from my thoughts. Her soft lips came together for a kiss I would only dream about.

  “Michael?” Sally said. “Why don’t you go ahead and get some rest?”

  I opened my eyes. I must have looked a wreck because Sally looked it too. She was standing before me, one hand stretched down awaiting my own, wanting to help me stand and help me get to bed. I don’t think I could have done it without her.

  “I’m sorry. I just…”

  “Let’s get you into bed.”

  Sally walked me to the guest bed, tucked me in, shut the lights off, and then left me alone. I heard the floor creak in the kitchen. I heard the bathroom door shut, then the shower turn on. I buried my face into her soft pillow and cried hard. I drained myself of energy and emotion. My face hurt, my eyes stung. I flipped the pillow over and fell quickly asleep.

  I awoke in the morning and knew what I was going to do.

  I felt different. The anger I was carrying seemed to have an outlet, a direction. I felt new. I felt bold and determined. Reckless. Careless even. I remembered the answer I gave to Frank about not being a cop. I couldn’t be a cop. Cops had to follow orders. Protocol. Investigations. Facts to gather to determine the best scenario. Even when the proof was staring them directly in their eyes. It was a job. A giant set of rules to follow to the letter, less a slight mistake or miscalculation may set a guilty man free, or an innocent man gets life behind bars.

  The rules were not mine.

  I wasn’t a cop.

  I could set my own rules to follow. Set my own course of justice.

  “Let the dead bury the dead,” Little B once told me. I could simply give them the shovel.

  Little B loved to watch old western movies where cowboys would save a damsel in distress. She said they were real men. Men with honor and strength. Men that would fight the world for what was right. She said her husband “Red”, my grandfather, had been one of those men. He once stood against five gang members that were harassing two women. The women got away and he was beaten bad, but he proved a point. He stood his ground. He let them know that there was still a hero around.

  Then I recalled Little B’s story about angels. They were all around us, she said. Fighting every sort of evil. People needed them now. Evil was lurking everywhere. We needed miracles at work, whether we could see them or not. People needed hope. People needed someone fighting for them against all sorts of evils.

  Angels.

  Heroes.

  Justice.

  Me.

  My whole life up to that moment came together and I knew exactly who I was and what I was going to do with the time I had.

  And I knew right where to start.

  I left a note for Sally on the table telling her I would be back later, then went out to the El Camino just before nine in the morning and drove back to the worst pain in my life, fully intent on dishing it right back.

  I drove to the park a couple of blocks from where Little B had a home. The Russians had painted it red. I could see it from where I parked. I got out of the car and looked the other way, out into the park, searching for the man I came to kill.

  The park was small, maybe ten acres of tall grass peppered with a handful of trees, with a shallow, dried out riverbed snaking through it. There was a small section of sand and children’s slides and swings, and a basketball court. By noon the court would be full of hustlers working on their ball game. By nightfall the drug dealers would be working on their hustle game.

  I had parked in the small section within the park beside the court where I could view its entirety all at once. Not much was happening. It was early. I ate a donut; I had all day. I bought a dozen of them a few blocks away. The box rested on the seat beside me. A nice variety. A stomachache later, definitely. I drank a small bottle of chocolate milk too. I thought it was good stake-out food. I was new to this sort of work.

  My eyes focused and locked on a man, presumably homeless judging by his shabby attire and wild, unkempt, Don King hair style, as he rummaged through the trash cans. One after the other. His hands must have been plastered in bacteria. He spent about twenty minutes in one can, half of that time his upper body was lost to me, buried down within the metal cylinder. When he finally stood, he looked right at me. I could see his jaw moving, chewing hard. I ate the rest of my donut and licked my fingers, keeping eye contact with him. I felt like I was at a zoo watching an orangutan. In my head, I named the guy Dumpy. Appropriate for several reasons.

  Dumpy seemed unfazed by me. He probably couldn’t even see that far anyway. He rummaged through the rest of the trash cans then wandered up through the dry river bed littered with everything imaginable. I saw an old couch in there and wondered if that’s where he slept.

  It was then quiet for a while. A dingy white four-door Silverado drove by slowly and I turned to watch it, to stare down whomever was riding behind the black tinted windows. It didn’t come back. Traffic was light for another hour, like I knew it would be. These were Rotters that were used to being up all night. They didn’t know what ten in the morning looked like. I waited patiently. Out in the open. Eyes scanning like a hawk. Mouth chewing Bear Claws.

  An hour later brought a bit more life, though everyone kept their distance. Pot heads with tie-dyed shirts and knitted hats smoked joints under a tree. Reckless teens passed through in small groups. Dumpy wandered back and began tipping over the couch in the empty river bed like he was rolling a giant snowball. Across to the other side of the park was an old lady tossing something to a scattering of pigeons. No long-haired man though. No one of interest.

  “You a cop?” a man’s voice called out behind me. It startled me a bit. I almost choked on my donut.

  I turned. A white man in his
early twenties was watching me, wearing baggy green shorts and a sleeveless white T-shirt that looked like he had cut the sleeves off himself during a long night of drinking. One side was cut higher than the other, both were jagged and uneven. He was holding a basketball, staring at me hard. He looked upset that I was there. He kept looking around as if he was worried about being seen with me.

  “Are you?” I said.

  “Yeah right.” He looked around and then back to me. “If you’re a cop, you’re the dumbest one I ever saw.”

  “Well, I’m not.”

  “Yeah, well, whoever you’re waiting to bust ain’t gonna show.”

  He turned and walked to the basketball court and began missing layups. I watched him for a minute. He was horrible. I was curious then. I walked over to the edge of the court and stopped. I think it made him uncomfortable. He kept missing shots. He looked like an infant playing with a ball for the first time.

  “Want to play me?” he said.

  “You’re embarrassing yourself just fine without my help.”

  “What do you want then?”

  “Why do you think I’m waiting for someone who isn’t going to show up?”

  “That’s what stupid cops do.”

  “I told you I’m not a cop.”

  “Yeah, you’re a stupid cop.”

  I could feel my anger working in me, agitating, swirling against my natural relaxed demeanor. I was hot. My face must have been turning red. I thought for a second about breaking his legs and ending his fantasy once and for all.

  “Why don’t you just answer my question?” I growled. I folded my arms against my chest. I looked mad.

  “Look at you, man. A cop, in the park, in the morning, standing around doing nothing but watching people. Ain’t nobody even here, man. People see you standing here waiting and they gonna keep on going.”

  “Think so?” I knew he was right. I beat myself for not seeing it before.

  “You’ll be here all day, screwing up everyone else’s day.”

  “So go sell crack someplace else.”

  “Hey man, I don’t sell drugs!” He was offended. I believed him then. “I ain’t like that. I play ball. I got talent.”

  I laughed. “You got talent like I got a badge. You should reconsider selling drugs.”

  He walked purposely over toward me, ball in his hand, anger in his eyes. A foot from me, he turned away and eyed up the hoop at the far end of the court. He had the ball in his right hand, arm cocked way back past his head, then shot. Four seconds later the ball was going through the hoop. Nothing but net.

  “You hustle.” I didn’t look the least bit impressed.

  “I make money.” He looked around the entire park, then back to me. “And with you standing right here, I ain’t.”

  “I’m not a cop.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  I walked back to the car and got in. He was right. It was closing in on noon and the park wasn’t the same as I had seen for years in the past. The guy kept playing ball, looking over at me every few minutes, shaking his head. I did stick out. I was still wearing the brand new clothes Sally bought me the day before. Plus I had a nice clean look about me. No one in their right mind was going to let me approach them.

  I reached behind the seat and yanked out a hooded black sweatshirt. I had it crammed down to the floor. It was all wrinkled up, dirty. I hadn’t worn it in a long while. I put it on. I kept the hood on as well.

  There was a knock against my window. I turned quickly. It was the basketball guy. He looked amused. I rolled down my window. Hand roller, not a button. Old school.

  He pointed to the box of donuts with a grin. “You’re not a cop?”

  “What do you want?”

  “You got a fake mustache in there too?”

  I grew irritated. “Done missing layups for the day?”

  “Do yourself a favor and go home.”

  “Can’t do that yet.”

  “Why?”

  “Waiting. Just like you said.”

  “Didn’t you hear me when I said it wasn’t going to happen?”

  “I put a sweatshirt on.” I pointed to my hood. “See?”

  “Who is it?” He was agitated. He wanted me gone.

  “A man with a long ponytail. Fast, white car. Know him?”

  He looked like he was thinking something through. He was debating something. “Sure, man. I know who you’re looking for. You gonna take him to jail?”

  “No. I’m not a cop.”

  “What’d he do?”

  “He killed my fiancé.”

  He didn’t look as surprised. He was quiet for a moment. He gave me a serious look. “He’s bad news, man. You better be a damn good cop.”

  “I’m not a cop at all.”

  Another pause. “Listen man, get out of here for a while. Let me make some money. He doesn’t get through here until later anyway. Maybe five or six.” He looked around again. He was very curious. “Where’s everyone else at? Where’s your back up?”

  “Just me. Like I said, I’m not a cop. Buy some Q-tips.”

  He smiled. “I hope you’re right. But later on you might be wishing you were, man.”

  He patted the top of my car and then walked away. I waited a second, then turned the key and drove away. I had a few hours to kill. No real place to hang out. I figured I would get some real food and do some sightseeing. I came to the intersection the block before Little B’s old house. It was red and fixed up. I turned left and didn’t look back.

  I drove out of the neighborhood. I didn’t want word to spread that a black El Camino SS was just driving around. People get suspicious really quick around there. I went to the other side of town altogether. I went to a small upscale burger joint and just relaxed. I had the Thursday special: bacon cheese burger and seasoned fries. I tried to stay mean enough, focused enough, to be able to do what I had intended on doing this morning when I knew I was going to find the ponytailed man. But I bought comfort foods. I was enjoying myself. I should have eaten a hotdog. I always get mad having to eat a hotdog.

  I drove back to the park after driving around for a while. It was four-thirty in the afternoon. It was almost sixty degrees out too, warm and sunny, and I knew that meant the park would be full.

  I parked on the street a block away and walked. I took my time. I wanted to seem casual. I wanted to fit in. The park was full like I knew it would be. I saw my friend from earlier playing basketball with three others. He was working hard. I thought about standing courtside, but I had better things to do. I found a picnic table near the center of the park and slumped down on it. I could see most of the park where the action was, with the empty river yards behind me and Dumpy asleep on the couch. I watched the sky, the birds and squirrels, and pretended to sleep, all the while keeping track of everyone there.

  Ten minutes later a white ’08 Corvette pulled in and parked by the court facing me. The engine was loud; it was a fast car. It was clean, polished to a shine. I didn’t move, but I stayed looking in that direction. The driver was a man. He was staring straight at me. I looked away. I grew nervous to the point where I thought I was going to be sick. Then I casually looked back at him. He was still staring at me. No deviation. No mistaking what he was looking at. Then his hand came off of the wheel to where I could see two of his fingers wave at me, motioning for me.

  I swallowed hard. He made the gesture again, this time with irritation, and there was no doubt. He wanted me. I was shaking with nervous energy and pumping adrenaline. I rose and walked toward his car. As I got closer, I could see him clearer, ponytail and all.

  This was it.

  Justice.

  As I came closer, he leaned over and opened the passenger door. I opened it further, got in, shut the door, and sat next to the man who killed Pamela.

  “I expected another Russian.” His hand reached under his seat and he pulled something out, handing it to me. “Here. Take it.”

  It all had caught me by surprise and I just
sat there for a second trying to grasp the situation. I stared at his face. He was older than me, but not by much. He had black hair, slicked back into a ponytail that ended at the middle of his back. His face was bony, long nose, prominent cheek bones and a chiseled chin with a dent in it. He had black stubble too. But he wasn’t dirty. If anything he was fresh out of a shower with a dab too much of the liquid cologne. The man was talking to me like we knew each other. Eventually he was going to realize his mistake.

  His hand held a folded piece of paper. His eyes told me to take it.

  So I did.

  “This is demeaning.” He was angry. He was bitter. He looked away from me and stared straight ahead to someplace far away. “The first time in ten years that something goes wrong and bam, I’m off the job. Just like that. It’s disgraceful. It’s a slap in the face.”

  I wondered if I should be opening up the paper. I wondered what was in it. I wondered who he thought I was. But he kept talking, distracted as he was, and he didn’t seem to care if I just sat there.

  “So don’t think that by taking my job that somehow you’re better at it. You ain’t. I was the best.” He was working himself into a frenzy.

  I sat there with the paper in hand, silent.

  He slammed his hands against the steering wheel hard. “I told him that I had taken care of it and I did! No one was ever going to find out! Everything was wrapped up! Just like I do! Every time! Me! I’ve always taken care of it. This just shows you how much respect he has for his loyals.”

  He hit the steering wheel in a rapid session. He was sweating then. Huffing and puffing. He’d cry later, I was sure of it. I said nothing.

  “You think this can’t happen to you? Think long and hard about it. You’re not even one of them.”

  He stared at me. I felt like I had to say something.

  “What did you do, exactly?”

  Oops.

  He turned his head towards me nice and slow with an incredible look in his eyes. Suspicion and wonder. I knew I had said the wrong thing. I knew he must have realized that I was the wrong person.

  “What did you just say?”

  “I was making conversation.”

  “You wearing a wire? You a cop?”

  “What?”

  “Take your clothes off.”

  I looked down and he had nine millimeter pointed at my side, just an inch away. His eyes held a wild look, like a wolf discovering a wounded hare.

  “What? Why?”

  “Do it. Right now or I’ll blow your insides out through that door.”

  I believed him. “Listen-”

  “Now!”

  I slowly did as told, starting with my sweatshirt, then shirt, then shoes, then pants, then socks. I sat in my new underwear. “I’m not a cop.”

  He looked me over, checking for a wiretap, then told me to get dressed. He somewhat apologized, telling me that he’s all worked up because he thinks The Bear is out to get him now.

  “I don’t trust that Russian. Watch your step with him.”

  I nodded. I was dressed, my hand still clutched the folded paper. I wasn’t about to initiate any further conversation. He still held the gun.

  “That guy took the fall,” he began his rant again as if nothing had happened between us, “and everything was going to just fade away like it always did.”

  Angelo Garboni.

  I shifted my body, facing him now. I could feel my temperature rise. I could hear the paper in my hand begin to crumple as I made fists.

  “And what’s my job?” He said to himself.

  I had no idea.

  “They want someone, they come to me. They need someone to disappear, they come to me. The girls get out of line, I’m the guy.”

  I was getting hotter. I could hear my breathing deepen, almost with a growling exhale. All other sounds were drowning out. It was just the two of us left on the planet.

  “So I did what they pay me to do. I took care of it like I always do.” He paused. “Then the skinny blond went nuts. I mean, she went crazy. She tried to stab the fat man with a plastic spork, you know? So instead of shipping her to Moscow, fatboy told me to get rid of her. I was taking her to a warehouse when she went nuts on me in the van. What choice did I have? I had to shoot her. Me or her, right? So she ate a bullet before I had planned. No big deal. Then I figured I’d do the others too. Why keep driving? Do it all then and go ditch the van. Business as usual. Just another day.” He paused, thinking. “Feisty as hell, that girl. Pamela, I think her name was. Blondes always fight though.”

  His voice faded away. A wash of light came over me, filled with Pamela’s innocent face. So beautiful. So bright. So full of life. I missed her so much then. Her eyes twinkled as if she was trying to tell me a secret. She came closer to my face. I could smell the vanilla lotion she used. It was soothing. It calmed the anger I had been filled with a second ago. She brushed her lips past my cheek, moving towards my ear. Her touch gave me goose bumps. I felt relaxed and excited at the same time. I could hear her voice begin to whisper…

  The car’s horn was loud enough to wake me from the dream. I moved away from the man, who was now slumped lifeless against the steering wheel. Blood was dripping from his head down to the floor mats, droplets were running down the windows. I jumped back in shock. My hands were wet, red and slippery. Something had happened.

  I looked outside, thinking of help, but the basketball court was empty. The entire park was for that matter. It was dead silent. Everyone had fled.

  I wiped the blood and strands of hair from my hands onto the seat and frantically opened the door. My heart was pounding. I was having trouble breathing. I had done it. I was to blame. I was shaking. I was getting sick.

  I exited the car and backed away, still staring in disbelief at the mess inside, still trying to put the missing piece in place. I had killed a man. My mind had drifted to someplace nice while my body did the deed. I felt cold. It was nearly sixty degrees outside with no wind. I should be sweaty. But the cold grew overwhelming. Freezing. Numbing. Not across my skin, but deep inside me. My core. It was a sensation like I had never felt before. One that I didn’t imagine possible.

  I turned to get out of there, when I saw the black Rolls-Royce. The car of Death itself. It was parked just feet away, facing me. It had seen everything.

  The driver was a tall, fit man, who got out and then opened the back door. He stood beside the door and motioned for me to get in. I was in shock still. I wanted to turn and run, to obey all my senses screaming in warning. But I didn’t. I walked forward to the car, past the driver, and slid onto the black leather seat with my hands stained red.

  “I see you must be an impatient man. We agree to kill him on Saturday.” The big Russian said, then turned to look at me with cold grey eyes. “Palo was right. I do like you.”

  Chapter 9