Authors: Tim Maleeny
“They should be dead by now,” said Julio.
Zorro nodded patiently from behind his desk, his eyelids drooping enough to make him look like a crocodile trying to lure its prey closer to the banks. Julio had seen that look before.
“Dead,” Julio repeated the word, hoping to rouse Zorro out of his reptilian slumber. Actually the word Julio used was
muerto
, since they were speaking Spanish. A close relative to
muerte
, or Death, a word that carried far greater menace in his native tongue than in English. Every word in Spanish had a gender, and
muerte
was female. Julio liked to think of Death as a vengeful bitch, showing no mercy or remorse, a constant presence in his life much like his beloved wife.
“Perhaps,” said Zorro.
“They put us at risk.”
Zorro nodded absently. “They have been useful, Julio. They can go places closed to people like you and me. Office buildings, banks, small companies.”
“There must be other gringos in this town who can make sandwiches.”
Zorro chewed on his lower lip as he considered the argument. “But these brothers, they make us a lot of money.”
“But at what cost?” said Julio, careful not to raise his voice. “They attract too much attention, Zorro. Two of our men,
dead
. The fat gringo who was blackmailing them,
dead
. The police will have to do something.”
Zorro put his feet on the desk, closed his eyes and nodded. He had to remind himself Julio was smarter than he looked. Just because a man weighed as much as an orca and had an unnatural proclivity for violence didn’t mean he was stupid.
“And what would you suggest, Julio?”
Julio thought he’d already made a perfectly good suggestion, so he repeated it slowly.
“We…should…kill…them.”
“Ah,” said Zorro, “but won’t that make the police even more suspicious?”
Julio hesitated. He knew how cautious Zorro could be, but he also knew the two brothers were looking for a fall guy, and Julio had no intention of taking the fall. Let Zorro think of him as the loyal bodyguard—it paid well. But when the police came, Julio was going to be the first one out the back door. The last time he was in prison, he’d promised himself it would be his last, ever. He’d kill himself before he went back behind bars.
The thought gave him an idea.
“What if they killed each other?” he asked.
Zorro opened his eyes. “Killed each other?”
“Why not?”
“You mean they have an argument…”
“…over a woman…”
“…or a double-suicide?”
Julio shrugged. “Must happen all the time in this fucking city, no?”
Zorro brought his hands together. “Maybe they were depressed.”
“You could plant some evidence—”
“—linking them to the other killings.”
Zorro took his feet off the desk. “This is a great plan.”
“It is a
great
plan, Zorro.” Julio emphasized the words carefully so it sounded like it had been Zorro’s idea in the first place.
“Yes,” agreed Zorro, “it is.”
It was a great plan.
That’s what Buster thought when Zorro first told him how they were going to get rid of that
hijo de puta
cop who almost drove over his foot. Zorro had designed an elaborate mouse trap for Sam, and Buster was going to be the cheese.
The big cheese. That’s how Buster had been thinking of himself all day.
El queso grande
. The bait that would lure that meddling
guardia
to his grave. And that was only the beginning.
The plan had three parts. First, eliminate anyone nosy, which meant Officer Sam. Normally they couldn’t touch a guy like that. But now that he wasn’t a cop, he was fair game. Buster had even called the precinct house to make sure Sam wasn’t bullshitting about being retired.
After what they did to Sam’s apartment, it was only a matter of time before he came to them. He might act tough, but guys like that never followed through. Even the baddest cops had rules of conduct, their own code that let them think they were better than the people they arrested. Buster would act stubborn at first, then play the part of the two-faced informant, which came naturally. Then he’d give Sam an address where he could find Zorro.
Except Zorro wouldn’t be there when Sam arrived.
Julio and one of Zorro’s other soldiers, some dude named Rafael, would be waiting for Sam with a chainsaw and a box of industrial strength garbage bags. Officer Sam would be shark chum before the next high tide.
Part two of the plan involved tying up loose ends. After they had taken care of Officer Sam, there was no one to stop Zorro from cutting those two fuckups Larry and Jerome out of the picture.
Buster had frowned when he’d first heard the second part. He’d always liked Jerome, but Larry was an asshole. Typical privileged white boy, thinks he’s better than anyone with an accent, anyone who didn’t go to college. You could see it in his eyes. Even when he was so scared he was practically pissing himself, Larry managed to look down his nose at you. Too bad for Jerome his brother was such a
pijo
.
The third and final stage was to find two new lunch monkeys who could front Zorro’s distribution network of San Francisco office buildings. Buster figured he could hang around near The Metreon, the big movie complex on Mission and 5th, and approach preppy
gringos
until someone took the bait. Sell them a dime bag, start a conversation, see where it leads.
Yes, it was a great plan, thought Buster, not realizing that it contained one fatal flaw. It was a mistake so fundamental that Buster wouldn’t appreciate the irony until much later, when he was writhing on the sidewalk in agony.
“Well, this is ironic.”
“Fuck you, Larry.”
Jerome tried to get his bearings but was too agitated. Zorro’s driver had dropped them off at the usual corner, next to the gas station, and Jerome remembered parking only two blocks away. But where was their fucking car?
“No, really—
hic
—I mean it,” said Larry. “You never lost the car when you were stoned.”
“That’s because you always drove.”
“Oh,” said Larry. “I hadn’t thought of—
hic!”
“Hold your breath.”
“Why? Am I waiting for something?”
“Two reasons, nimrod,” said Jerome. “First, to stop those annoying hiccups. Second, to get you to
shut the fuck up
so I can find our car.”
Larry took a deep breath, held it, and mumbled something through his bull-frogged cheeks that sounded a lot like, “
Mmm-hmmm-mmm-aaa
.”
“What?” Jerome asked.
Larry exhaled loudly, his bloodshot eyes watering. “It’s one block over.”
Jerome stopped dead in his tracks.
“You knew where our car was?”
Larry took in another lungful of air and said, “
Mmm-hmm
.” Cheeks bulging, he pointed with his right hand.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“You didn’t ask.”
Jerome put his hands on his hips and turned slowly.
Don’t take the bait.
He moved stiffly to the corner and waited for the light to change.
Traffic was light in the Mission District this time of day. Some kids on their way home from school moved in small clusters along the sidewalks. Old women carried their groceries. Some teenagers were hanging outside a bodega, talking trash and making each other laugh. Just the normal comings and goings of a neighborhood where families tried to make ends meet, and where those that made it knew which corners to avoid, when to look the other way, and what time of night the streets belonged to someone else.
Larry took a shallow breath, followed by another, then smiled. He was about to say something when a hiccup interrupted him.
So close.
He drew as much oxygen into his lungs as a free-diver and followed his brother across the street. Jerome took advantage of the silence to think aloud.
“I think that went OK, considering.”
Larry raised his eyebrows theatrically and spread his hands in a gesture that implied,
if you say so
.
“What are you, a fucking mime?”
Larry didn’t say anything.
“I hate mimes, Larry,” snapped Jerome. “Everybody hates mimes.”
Larry exhaled. “Not the French.”
Jerome scowled as Larry took a breath, released. Another, in and out.
So far so good.
Their car was untouched, a few minutes left on the meter. Jerome fished the keys from his pocket and hit the button to unlock the doors. Sliding behind the wheel, he started the engine as Larry got in the car.
“Maybe it didn’t go well,” said Jerome cautiously. “Hard to tell with a sociopath.”
Larry nodded, suddenly sober at the thought of Zorro. “Maybe we should talk to the cop.”
“Are you crazy?” Jerome flexed his fingers around the steering wheel but left the car in park. “We just talked to Z about making sure the cop isn’t our problem.”
“Do you trust Zorro, Jerome?”
“We’re criminals, Larry. Cops don’t talk to criminals—they
arrest
them.”
Larry shifted in his seat like a fidgety kid. “I don’t want to be a criminal.”
“I don’t want to get arrested.”
“Maybe he’ll let us off with a warning.”
“We didn’t get a fucking parking ticket, Larry. We moved pot for the Mexican mob, killed a guy and then covered it up.”
“It was an accident.”
“Which part?” Jerome swiveled on the seat, then turned and faced the windshield. His brother’s restlessness was contagious.
Larry sighed. “OK, not all of it was an accident. Only the big stuff.”
“By
stuff
, you mean the part where Walter fried himself on our toaster.”
“Yeah, that. That was an accident. It’s not like it was murder or anything.”
Jerome chewed on that for a minute. “But it was premeditated.”
“Because we
thought
about killing him. That’s not against the law. Married couples do it all the time—it’s only murder if you turn those thoughts into action.”
“So we got lucky,” said Jerome. “That’s our defense?”
“Works for me.”
“But you’re stoned.”
Larry shook his head. “Not so much. It’s wearing off…mostly.”
“Mostly.” Jerome chuckled. “I know that feeling.”
“What a surprise.”
Jerome didn’t say anything, just gripped the steering wheel as he watched pedestrians and cars flow past, oblivious to the brothers’ dilemma.
Larry cleared his throat, fought a hiccup, and said, “Hey Jerome.”
Jerome turned to face him. “Yeah?”
“You did good back there.”
Jerome looked for some hint of sarcasm or irony in his brother’s expression but found none. Larry was as limpid as a pool.
“Thanks, Larry.”
“I couldn’t have done that.”
“I was scared shitless.”
“Didn’t show.”
Jerome pushed a smile forward but couldn’t hold it. “You really think we should talk to the cop?”
“I was just thinking out loud.”
“We talked to him before,” mused Jerome, “and we’re still free men. Maybe we could do it again.”
“Might learn something.”
“Without giving anything away?”
“You never know till you try.”
“We’d have to find him first.”
“That’s easy,” said Larry. “We know where he lives.”
“True,” said Jerome. “But we don’t have a lot of time, do we?”
Larry frowned. “Not if what Zorro said was true. He said Sam was coming to him.”
“Then we do have to find him,” said Jerome. “Unless we want to get caught in the middle.”
“We’re already in the middle.”
“It’s the
caught
part I want to avoid.”
Finally the brothers agreed. Jerome asked the question on the tip of both their tongues.
“I wonder where Sam is now?”
Sam spotted Buster on his usual corner, adjacent to the gas station. Spinning the wheel, he bounced the convertible across oncoming traffic and coasted to a stop in front of a closed service door of the garage, watching out of the corner of his eye to make sure Buster was tracking him and not running.
Buster had his headphones on, and Sam could hear the atonal whine of spilled music from twenty feet away. As he came within five feet, Sam took note of the gold hoops running from the top of each of Buster’s ears down to the lobes, only slightly hidden by his orange and blue locks. Sam counted eight hoops on each side and wondered if all the piercings had been done in one sitting.
When he was standing directly in front of Buster, Sam slid his left hand into his jacket pocket and palmed something. Buster only caught a glimpse, but it looked like a strip of paper.
Buster nodded to the beat of his music and gave Sam a smile with all the warmth of Everest. It reminded Sam of how he’d been feeling all day. Since leaving Jill, he could swear the blood in his veins had been replaced by liquid nitrogen, and it brought a crystalline clarity to his perspective. With his right hand, Sam fished his sunglasses from an inside pocket and slipped them on, then returned Buster’s smile and held out his left hand, palm facing upwards.
“Here, Buster,” he said. “I thought you might need this.”
Buster tilted his head forward and frowned, at first not registering what it was, then not understanding why Sam was showing it to him.
It was a Band-Aid.
As Buster raised his head to ask the question, Sam extended his right hand and tore four gold hoops from Buster’s left ear.
Buster screamed and staggered backwards. Sam let the Band-Aid fall to the ground and reached out again, this time with his left hand, and tore away four more hoops. Buster’s agony was now symmetrical.
Buster’s eyes bugged out in disbelief. When he raised both hands to his ears, Sam punched him in the nose. Blood spattered Sam’s glasses as Buster fell backwards onto the sidewalk.
Buster was trying to dig his heels into the concrete and push himself as far way from Sam as possible, but Sam stepped almost casually around Buster until he was standing behind him. Buster froze as soon as Sam’s shadow fell across his face. Sam bent at the waist and spoke quietly. “You don’t look too good, Buster. Guess I should have brought two Band-Aids.”
Buster spat blood. “You can’t do this—my rights—it’s fucking illegal. I could—” He stopped and spit again. “I could sue your ass.”
“Illegal.” Sam almost laughed. “That’s funny, Buster. You mean like breaking and entering into someone’s apartment?”
Buster tried to look defiant, but being upside and covered in blood, he was at a slight disadvantage. “
Loco
.”
“Maybe you should have thought of that before you tried to set me up.”
Buster coughed and tried to sit up, but Sam moved a foot onto his chest, saying, “You were too easy to find, Buster.”
Buster’s eyes went wide, but he managed a half-hearted snarl before Sam put enough weight on his leg to push the air out of him.
“
Chingate
,” said Sam. “Fuck you, Buster.”
Like most San Franciscans, Sam spoke enough Spanish to get around. And like most cops, the bulk of his vocabulary was profanity. Buster didn’t seem offended, though. He had other things on his mind.
Buster saw spots and thought he was going to black out, which is when he realized their terrible mistake. The very thing that had emboldened Zorro to act had changed the playing field against them. Sam was no longer a cop. But they had assumed, unconsciously, that he would still act like one—tough but measured, careful to remain on his side of the law. But they had made this personal, and when Buster really thought about it, they didn’t know a damn thing about Officer Sam as a person or as a man.
They didn’t know that Sam hadn’t felt like a cop in years, which is why he quit the force. He may not know what he was anymore, but
measured
probably wasn’t one of the adjectives he’d choose.
Careful
wasn’t on the list, either. On one hand, Sam was waking up, rediscovering that he was part of the human race, connected to the people around him. On the other hand, he wasn’t all that sure he wanted to be, because some people were just assholes. Marie had always believed people were fundamentally good. As a cop, Sam had always believed the opposite.
Now he found himself standing somewhere between the two realities, and he felt with disturbing clarity his own ability to move from one to the other without missing a beat.
“Hey, Buster,” he said gently, still looming over him. “Where’s Zorro?”
Busters fingers were criss-crossed with blood from his ravaged ears and nose, but his eyes had a calculated cruelty that even his pain couldn’t hide. “OK, I tell you. Zorro is—”
Sam raised his foot directly over Buster’s head and clucked his tongue.
“
No mames
, Buster,” he chided. “Don’t bullshit me.”
Buster sneered and started to say something, then stopped himself and muttered, “I don’t know.”
Sam waited, his foot only inches from Buster’s ruined nose.
Buster looked past the foot at Sam and said, “
Chupar es mi pinga
.”
“Wrong answer.” The foot came down hard next to Buster’s head and he sighed involuntarily, then gasped as Sam grabbed two handfuls of dreadlocks and dragged him across the parking lot.
“I thought these were extensions,” grunted Sam. “Must have taken you a long time to get your hair to grow out like this.”
Buster was kicking and cursing in a torrent of Spanish, English, and what sounded vaguely like Swedish, but Sam had all the leverage. When they reached Sam’s car, he twisted his wrists violently clockwise, causing Buster to flip over onto his belly.
“
Maricon.
” Buster’s voice was muffled by the pavement mashed against his face.
“Don’t get your hopes up just because you’re on your stomach,” said Sam, who released Buster long enough to pop the trunk. “You’re not my type.” When Buster got on his hands and knees, Sam kicked him in the belly, just hard enough to knock the wind out of him. While Buster wheezed, Sam rummaged through his pockets and snagged his wallet, cell phone, and a knife Buster had shoved deep in his right front pocket. It was a butterfly knife, a fixed blade covered by hinged handles that swung apart to reveal the business end of the weapon. Once you understood the mechanism, the knife could be opened one-handed almost as quickly as a switchblade. Sam transferred the items to his own pockets. Then he grabbed Buster by the hair and belt, threw him in the trunk, and slammed it shut.
Sam scanned the street and noticed quite a few people watching him but trying very hard to appear as if they weren’t. He didn’t hear a siren and didn’t expect to. He’d never thought of it from the perpetrator’s point of view before, but that was one of the nice things about assaulting someone in this part of town. He slid behind the wheel and adjusted the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of himself in the process. He paused and took off his sunglasses, studying his expression as if looking at a stranger.
He didn’t really like what he saw, but it didn’t bother him all that much, either. Sam backed out of the gas station and drove away in no particular hurry, like a man who had yet to decide which way he was going to turn.