Chapter 28 - It's the Small Things That Can Kill You! - No More Weekend T.V. Wrestling

          Chapter 28 – No More Weekend T.V. Wrestling!

As unsettling as the invisible presence was, I would also add that it was both disturbing and exhilarating. It danced on my skin. It was then that I beheld a strange sight that I had only seen one other time. Clusters of faint glowing lights. Small pea-sized spheres moved around the damaged drainpipe and along the rain cutters of the Happy Meadows main building. They danced like playful electric bumble bees moving from one metal object to another. They swarmed Mrs. Cox’s car, much to Fenton’s dismay.

“Rico.” I shoved him in the shoulder hard. My friend was frozen with fear. He crossed himself.

“Jax, I need to wake up my uncle Jerry. This is bad! So bad!” He lumbered towards the hearse were Jerry Gonzales lay in a drunken stupor. Rico’s feet were sluggish. He was in some sort of psychological shock. It was obvious that he could see something that I could not and his eyes betrayed the spot where the presence was the strongest.

What I believed that I was seeing was a rare natural phenomenon my father had called “ball lightning”. Several years ago, my dad and I were on a ferry traveling up the coast of Lake Michigan. There was a storm on the horizon. The same lights had swarmed the upper part of the ferry and some of the parked cars the craft was transporting.

My dad had said this was a rare manifestation of static electricity that happens near bodies of water. The ball lightning lingered for several seconds and then disappeared, only to reappear in a different spot. He allowed me to watch for a minute or so before he took me down to a lower deck and we sat in the safety of our car. Dad had told me that the display was called “Saint Elmo’s Fire” by some sailors and many people were superstitious about the very appearance of it. Many believed that such luminous objects are omens or even the very souls of the dead.

I ran over to Rico. He was opening the door at the rear of the hearse. There was no casket at the back, as this wasn’t a funeral. The door was one solid structure that, when opened, allowed maximum clearance for a coffin-sized object. In this case, the only object in the back was a groggy Jerry Gonzales.

As I approached the hearse that Jerry was sleeping in, I shouted. “Is he awake?”

I looked through the large window of what was essentially a large, black stretch limo with a modified interior, I saw Jerry in the back wrapped in a blanket. Rico was shaking him, trying to arouse him. But it seemed to no avail. Then Rico became desperate.

He slapped Jerry in the face lightly. “Wake up…Oye, despierta…you stupid, drunken…”  Then suddenly Jerry’s eyes suddenly opened very wide. They nearly bulged out of his skull. He leaned up and slapped Rico back so hard I thought his head was going to smack the side of the hearse.

“Cut it out Jerry. I’m a lot bigger than you. Don’t make me mad.” Rico screamed while holding the side of his numb jaw.

“You slapped me! I’m gonna’ mop up the floor with your head.” Jerry yelled as he jumped on Rico. A ridiculous slap fight ensued in the confined area of the hearse.

“Good luck trying to clean in the corners, dumbass.” Rico said through clenched teeth as he shoved Jerry out of the hearse, leaping after him.   

Fenton, ignoring the odd “ball lightning” that had now intensified, had come over to stare through the window of he now rocking vehicle.

I heard Jerry alternately laughing and swearing first in English and then in Portuguese and Spanish. Rico slammed Jerry so hard against the interior of the hearse that it almost broke Fenton’s nose that was pressed against one of the rear viewing windows of the hearse. I screamed for assistance from anyone inside Happy Meadows. No one seemed to be listening.

Rico’s leaped from the back of the hearse and missed Jerry by several feet. Instead of landing on his uncle, Rico did a barrel roll in the dirt and gravel in front of Happy Meadows. Jerry stood up, staggering a great deal. Then he screamed “Atomic knee drop”. Before he could execute the professional wrestling move, which doubtless would have resulted in a trip to the ER for at least one of them, Sal came by. Noticing Rico was now laying on his back, Sal calmly walked over with his semiautomatic drawn and put his foot on Rico’s throat. He then fired a round between Jerry’s legs.

Both men gave up, stopped fighting and stared at Sal. He put his gun away and helped Rico off the ground.

Rico was a mess. His hair was disheveled. His jeans were covered in dirt. Jerry walked over breathing hard. He was filthy and smelled like tequila.

Sal looked at me and then at Fenton. He pointed at Jerry and Rico. “Never pick a fight with an ugly person. They’ve got nothing to lose.” He warned. He then put his weapon back into his shoulder holster.

“We’ve got company.” Sal said as he gestured towards the glowing orbs.

“Jerry, I’m sorry I slapped you, but I was just trying to wake you up. Mira…Look!” Rico pointed at the ball lightning.

The static electricity popped and swirled near the zone where we first sensed the presence of what Rico believed were dead spirits of residents that usually occupied a local graveyard adjacent to Jerry’s home and property. Jerry dusted himself off and glanced at the scene.

The “ball lightning” had grown now. The orbs were about two feet in diameter. One of them burst. The flash revealed dozens of the local dead. They stood in various forms of decomposition, all completely naked as the day they were born. The flash lasted for only a second, yet I was able to make out the figure of James Cody standing at the head of the crowd. A fresh bullet hole in his forehead.

Rico, who described himself as a “lapsed Catholic”, crossed himself again and turned to Jerry. “Why did you feel the need to bring them with you?” Rico whispered.

“I don’t remember doing it. I fell asleep watching wrestling on television, woke up and read your note. I must have done the ritual to raise the dead and then blacked out. I guess I thought you might be in trouble and they could be useful.” Jerry whispered back.  

“No more weekend T.V. wrestling. Next Saturday night we are going to the movies.” Rico declared.

“It’s a deal.” Jerry studied the now numerous swirling orbs.”

“What has got them all wound up?” Rico asked.

“Local acts of violence always make the pot boil like this.” Jerry answered. “Usually not this bad. But it is close to October and the veil between the living and the dead grows thinner during this time of year.”

“It’s bugging me a lot. Can’t you put them back in the ground?” Rico complained.

“I’m afraid I’m in no shape to do that right now. They will return to where they belong at dawn. Right now, we just have to tolerate them.”

Chapter 27 - It's the Small Things That Can Kill You - It Virtually Has a Thousand Uses

Chapter 27 – It Virtually Has a Thousand Uses

It had been hours since Happy Meadows had been invaded by two hit men from a rival criminal element which Joey only referred to as Bobby Moretti’s boys. Joey, a bit of an escape artist himself, had taken the disarmed Artie Best and placed him in a chair.  He searched Artie for more weapons and found a switch blade knife with a six-inch blade. I wandered in from outside during the search process.

Clara came back after checking on Frank and noticed the weapon. Her eyebrows shot up a bit. I picked up the weapon.

“Um Jax, I don’t think…” Clara began.

But I pressed the button. In the movies, switchblade knives seemed like they were relatively weightless and usually made a cool sound when they sprang open like cinema magic. The sound didn’t seem much louder than the clicking of a ball point pen. This knife, however, seemed larger and had more heft to it than the ones on the big screen.

When I pressed the silver button, which was nearly as large as the knuckle of my index finger, an enormous blade jumped and locked into an open position with a rather loud mechanical clack. In doing so, it leapt from my hand and fell point down. The tip penetrated the linoleum of the lobby floor. I was startled, then held my breath for several seconds.

Carmen, who was present in the lobby to direct elderly residents back into their rooms, simply rolled her eyes at me and shook her head. Clara reached down and pulled the knife from the floor. After a brief inspection of the weapon, she gracefully closed it and handed it back to me.

“I think perhaps this is an outdoors toy.” She said with a smirk. I silently nodded in agreement.

“Jax!” Said Joey. “If you are through ruining the décor of this fine establishment, I could use some help here with…excuse me, I didn’t catch your name as you were trying to kill me?” He looked at Artie, now wrapped in nylon rope, and sitting in one of the lobby chairs.

Artie remained silent. “Come now, I must call you something.” Joey implored the bound assassin.

“My name is Artie.” He said reluctantly, as if he was a third-grade offender in a grammar school  principal’s office.

“Okay Artie. Now, your hands are behind you. I want you to open them and leave them both open for a minute.”

Artie complied. Joey reached into his pocket and produced a tube of a relatively new product, called super glue. He applied it to both of Artie Best’s palms.

“Now close your palms and don’t open them until I tell you to.” Joey directed.

Clara came over to me as I was still holding the switchblade. “Now why didn’t I think of that.” She eyed my hands. I took a half step away from her and she snorted with laughter twice and then came closer and shoulder bumped me.

“You are having way too much fun with this entire situation.” I complained as I feigned a serious tone.

Artie strained to open his hands. “Hey, I can’t open them.”

“Don’t worry, it probably wears off.” Joey theatrically showed Artie the tubes directions momentarily and then squinted at them himself. “Although it doesn’t say when it might anywhere on the tube.”

Joey continued as if he were in a lecture hall. “The reason he is relatively helpless right now isn’t entirely due to the glue. You see, most human beings have highly developed finger muscles for squeezing things, but the opposite set of muscles are quite weak.”

“I noticed that you used that stuff to glue the newspaper to his partner’s fingers. Do you always travel with so much of it?” Clara asked with clinical interest.

Artie continued to struggle to get his hands to open. His head was turning beet red.

“Yes.” Joey replied. “It virtually has a thousand uses. For instance, I used it to plug the hole in his partner’s forehead. It turned an hour-long cleanup into a simple five-minute job.”

“Neat!” Clara winked at Artie. Artie quit struggling and momentarily reflected on what Joey had just said.

“Now, if you and Clara would graciously watch Artie while his glue sets, I need to check on Frank once again.” Joey said. He produced a set of handcuffs and cuffed Artie’s right hand to the chair he was setting in.

“Here Jax.” Joey gave me his pistol. Then he turned to Artie and stated. “Okay. Cooperate and you probably will live through this.”

“Tell him to be careful and not drop that gun.” Artie yelled.

He turned to Carmen who was now chatting with Phyllis. “Carmen. I would like to put Artie in the same closet that we put you in. I think maybe Zach would fit in there too if we folded him up a bit. What are your thoughts?”

“He’s not supposed to be here!” Phyllis said quite emphatically.

“We are aware of that Phyllis. We will probably put them in the utility closet.” Phyllis gave the thumbs up sign to that suggestion.

Carmen also replied. “Yes, the closet. It would be helpful. There are a few residents that say they can’t sleep. They want to stay up a bit and play cards. I think they just want to watch you work, or maybe gossip with you all.” She replied.

“Tell them that we are about done here. I need to make another phone call, but I’ll pay you for it and settle with you before we move on.”

“Okie doke.” She chirped.

Joey turned to Clara. “I need to talk to Tony again to see how far out his guys are. Then I need to interrogate Artie before he goes into the closet with Zach. I think we might have one more dog on our trail. He might know who it is.”

“How many will keep coming at us?” Clara looked over at me, and I could see now that her brave face was starting to slip.

“I don’t think Artie was the other killer that I mentioned earlier.  He obviously was just a driver or backup. Billie Touche was a sniper and always worked alone. My instincts tell me that there might be someone else. But let me worry about that. What I really need to tell you is that, after tonight, I am getting out of the business.”

“I thought that nobody could leave the organization.” She said in astonishment.

“Oh, that part is true. Nobody leaves the Accardo organization. But I’m family. I’m just going to request a lateral transfer. Tony did it himself when he was my age. He has been looking for someone to head up security for a couple of his casinos in Chicago. I’ll float the idea on the phone to him. I would be closer to both you and Frank that way.”

“What about…” Clara looked around at Artie and pointed at him and then the deceased Zach.

“We will cover our tracks when the cavalry gets here. They will disappear the bodies. Our lawyers will get involved if necessary. I’ve already bought off Carmen if we need a witness for what happened here tonight.”

Joey grinned at her. “Tomorrow after I talk to Tony, I go legit and keep my promise to you. This way, you and I can both be available to care for Frank. I can visit on the weekends, and I’ll just be forty miles away in Windy City if either of you need me.

“Don’t play me Joey.” Clara’s steely gaze softened.

“I need something better than this. So do you.” Then she hugged him.

Suddenly there was a scream from the parking lot. It was Rico.

Disregarding my duties as Artie Best’s babysitter, I went blasting out of the front door, pistol in hand.

Rico was backing up away from…what? There was a presence out in the darkness. Fenton had gone back over to the entrance. Sal had retreated to his side. They both could sense it. I could somehow feel it too.

“Rico, what the hell?” I shook him.

“Jax, he brought them with him.” Rico pointed to the hearse and the place Jerry Gonzales was sleeping off a Saturday night drunk.

“What are you talking about?” I looked about but could see nothing out of the ordinary. However, I still felt a presence. Like icy pins momentarily touching my limbs and face.

“The dead. They're here. He brought them with him!” Rico was trembling.  

Chapter 26 - It's the Small Things That Can Kill You! - They Gossip a Lot

                                   Chapter 26 – They Gossip a Lot

It’s funny what flashes through a person’s mind during emergencies, although I don’t remember ever being in one quite like this. In what could only have been a scant period, perhaps a second or two, I remember thinking that this had started out to be a fine fall evening…or would have been, minus all the violent distractions.

A faint, cool fall breeze was in the air. There was a nearly full moon in the sky. It was the kind of evening where the world seemed to hold its breath. If I hadn’t gotten entangled in, well, whatever this social catastrophe you might want to call Clara’s obsession with Frank and Joey, the evening might have been damn near perfect.

Yet, out of that perfect stillness, ripping the peaceful veil of the evening asunder, came the low, uneven roar of an engine pushed far too hard. Then the vehicle approached. And as I stood next to Rico, I noticed that Fenton was missing. I looked back at the large four-wheeled monster coming towards us. I could still hear Sal screaming at me. I looked down at the shotgun in my hands.

My mind raced as I raised the gun and aimed at the tires. You see this stunt all the time in the movies, but does it work? Is there a trick to it or is it just Hollywood magic. Is ‘shooting out the tires' just a cinematic requirement in an action scene like effortlessly kicking a locked door in? Is it some fiction that scriptwriters perpetuate, I wondered? I was on the threshold of finding out.

Then the vehicle slowed down a bit. It started to veer to the left of the rest home lobby. Another sixty yards or so and it would have cleared the visitor parking area and ran over the curb. Beyond that the Happy Meadows complex was a scant fifty feet. My finger was on the trigger of the shotgun when Rico forcefully pushed the barrel down. 

"Don't shoot!" Rico cried. But the gun went off.

The noise was deafening. My eyes beheld a large divot that I had blown in the Happy Meadows dirt and gravel parking lot. The recoil from the shotgun knocked me backwards. I stumbled trying to regain my feet. I’m not a very big person. I only weigh about a buck and thirty cents in change. I hit one of the roof’s rain pipes hard.

It was then that I heard Fenton scream. He was above me. Rico, in a state of confusion, looked around for Fenton while trying to help me off the ground. I dropped the shotgun in the grass. We both looked up to see Fenton clinging to the drainage system tightly above us.  

While Rico and I were preoccupied with the oncoming car, Fenton must have climbed up the pipe like a monkey. He was nearly to the roof. Although Fenton hardly weighs more than I do, the drainpipe was starting to separate from the building. Slowly Fenton fell away from the roof and had to surrender his grip at the last minute.

Fenton finally surrendered to gravity and fell about six feet into the parking lot. His letterman’s jacket got scuffed but he seemed to be uninjured. The drainpipe, however, continued to descend in a perfect trajectory to collide with Fenton’s mother’s car. There was a loud crash and scraping sound.

I couldn’t make out exactly what Fenton said when the drainpipe scraped the surface of the restored classic car. My ears were still ringing from the shotgun blast. He spent the rest of the evening trying to think of how to spin the story to his mom and the insurance company.

Sal put his gun back in his shoulder holster and he backed away from the vehicle as it started to slow.  As the vehicle rolled in a large circle, nearly tipping over once again, I noticed that this wasn’t an ordinary car. I could see only the silhouette of the driver. He was slumped forward as if he was exhausted. The vehicle was a hearse.

It was an old hulking thing. I could see it’s dull chrome and long black body. It was made to solemnly glide down the street, not tear around a country road like a wounded animal.  

“Holy Hostess Twinkies,” cried Rico. “That’s the Jerry mobile.”

It was true. Slumped at the wheel was Jerry Gonzales, necromancer extraordinaire, still wearing his beat-up cowboy hat and ratty blue bathrobe.

“Jax, do you know this guy?” Sal asked. Then he eyeballed Rico suspiciously.

“Yes, this is Rico Gonzales and that, over there, is his Uncle Jerry.” I signified. “I’ve known both for several years.

“Why is he in a hearse?” Sal said, still trying to figure out if this weirdness was some sort of threat. We approached the hearse.

“Uncle Jerry is a brujo and a holy man that administers to the needs of our community. He is a healer and legally can perform burial rites. He bought the hearse three years ago for advertising purposes.” Rico explained. “He has a driver's license, but admittedly, even sober, he never was a very good driver.”

“What is Jerry doing all the way out here?” I asked. “You said he was watching wrestling on television at home.” I was puzzled.

“I’m afraid that was my fault. After I called you, I left a note telling him where I went.” Rico hung his head.

Fenton came over. “Actually, that was a very responsible thing do.” He tried to reassure Rico.

A very drunk Jerry Gonzales mumbled something in Spanish. I leaned over to him. I was close enough to smell his breath. He was very intoxicated. I checked the interior of the hearse for containers of alcohol. I couldn’t see any. Jerry mumbled the same thing again.

“What did he say?” Fenton asked.

“How should I know?” Rico replied.

“I thought that you spoke Spanish.” I said rather confused again.

“I do. But I don’t speak drunken Spanish. He is really out of it.” Rico snarked. “Jerry, speak English. Jaxon is here and he can’t understand you.”

“You said that you were going over to Happy Meadows. The dead told me you might be in trouble. They said that somebody was murdered there tonight. I came as fast as I could.” Jerry’s words were slurred and he fought to maintain consciousness.

“Murdered? Was he that dead guy with the newspaper that was sent to kill Joey Flowers? Um, Zach something-or-other.  I spaced his last name I guess.” I said, trying to put some pieces together.

“Who is Joey Flowers?” Fenton asked.

“A friend of Clara’s.” I answered. “I don't understand how anyone could already know that there is a dead body inside Happy Meadows?”

“The dead can instantly communicate with each other in our community. Frankly, I’ve always found it annoying. But it’s true never-the-less.” Rico said. “And let me tell you, they gossip a lot.”

“Is there is a dead guy inside there?” Fenton yelped.

“Yep!” answered Rico. “Right now, I can see his ghost staring at us through the window.”

Fenton waved at the window, waggling his fingers.

“Stop it, you’re just encouraging him. You should be grateful that you can't see him. By the way, I’m not going in there. There is no way!" Rico pointed at the window. "Come on. Help me get Jerry in the back of the hearse. I'll put a blanket on him so he can sleep it off."   Rico said sternly.  

Chapter 25 - It's the Small Things That Can Kill You! - Once More, With Feeling

           Chapter 25 – Once More, With Feeling

Joey glanced at Clara. She peeped around Artie Best’s head. Artie tightened his grip on his pistol, not because he thought he might use the gun to escape the situation he found himself in, but because he didn’t want Joey to see how badly his hand was starting to shake.

Joey assessed the situation and a great sadness washed over him. He felt responsible for the events of the evening up to this point, but now he had a sense that things were spinning out of his control. He needed to reassess what he was doing,

“Clara, please put the gun down.” Joey’s voice was calm but commanding.

“Not until he drops his weapon.” She insisted. A second later Artie slowly bent over and put his pistol on the ground.

Clara’s face was now completely visible to Joey. Joey Flowers was an expert at reading faces. Ask anyone who ever played poker with him. He was a master. Right now, he stared at a bead of sweat on Clara’s forehead. She had turned pale. Her eyes were dilated. She was terrified, yet she managed to remain calm enough to control her voice and maintain a clear head. He was proud of her, but he was wrong to give her permission to carry a weapon and lead her into this situation.

Joey didn’t realize how headstrong Clara was nor how vested she had become in the task of protecting Frank. If he allowed this to continue any further, he knew he would be responsible for bringing Clara into his own world. He was on the verge of corrupting her. It would be a complete violation of “The Code’ Frank had taught him. He needed to step back and reexamine his own moral compass.

Joey looked at Artie. “Okay, just kick the weapon over to me.” Joey remained standing behind the couch that the dead Zach Coleman was still sitting on. Zach’s arms were still supported by a thin nylon rope. Shreds of newspaper were still superglued to his fingers. The remaining pieces fluttered with the breeze provided by the ventilation system. As the torn newspaper moved with the air currents Artie was able to see Zach’s weapon, still in the dead man’s shoulder holster. His eyes widened.

No longer having Clara’s weapon pressed against his neck, Artie obediently kicked his gun over to the apparently unarmed Joey. He noticed that Clara had started to relax and had placed her gun at her side.

The kick Artie made was purposely weak. His gun spun and only moved half of the distance between himself and Joey. Artie gestured. It was a nonverbal ‘oops’. He looked at the gun still resting on the floor. He waited for Joey’s response.

When he moves from around the couch, Artie thought, “I’ll make a rush for the gun. I’ll be close enough to pick up my weapon from the floor and kill them both. His gun was fully loaded. It contained six shells. He decided he would kill the girl, Clara, first before she could raise her weapon. It should only take one or two bullets. Then he would use the remaining ammo to kill Joey. For a second he imagined what it would be like to be recognized as the man who killed the infamous Joey Flowers.

But Joey didn’t move at all. He simply looked disappointed at Artie. “Listen carefully. Your life depends on this. Do not bend over. Once more, with feeling, I want you to kick that gun under this couch.” Joel declared.  

Artie looked over at Clara who had now raised her weapon. “Don’t look at her.” Joel commanded. “Believe me. I’m your biggest worry right now.”

Artie reassessed his position. A new plan formed in his mind. He would kick his gun under the couch. In doing so he would feign tripping forward. This would place him close enough to reach Zach’s gun in his shoulder holster. He would then be nose-to-nose with the unarmed Joey Flowers. Close enough to easily kill him. Artie didn’t think the girl would risk shooting at him for fear of hitting her partner.

A moment of doubt raced through his mind. Why wasn’t Flowers armed. Was the girl really so very deadly with that small gun that he felt no need to carry a weapon during the confrontation? If so, maybe she really could take him down in proximity with Flowers, her partner. Was there a third operative lurking in some shadow of the lobby not illuminated by the auxiliary lighting system?

Impulsively, Artie decided to roll the dice anyway. He kicked his gun hard. It flew under the couch. As if in a high school play, he faked stumbling forward. Achieving a grip on Zach’s weapon he straightened up and triumphantly drew it. Artie pointed it at Joey and pulled the trigger. Clara screamed and raised her weapon.

The gun pulled from the shoulder holster made a dull, mechanical click.

“Why does every newbie I meet think I’m an idiot Clara? It’s not loaded.” Joey said emphatically to Artie. He then pulled his own .38 that was tucked between the couch and the dead Zach Coleman.  He held it inches from Artie’s face. “Sucks to be you, newbie.” Joey grinned.

Clara caught her breath. She looked at Joey. Joey could see that she was tearing up. “I’ve got this sweetie.” Joey coaxed. “Why don’t you check on Frank and untie Carmen. Let her out of the closet. it’s not locked.” Clara nodded in agreement and moved off down one of the hallways. “Oh, and bring back the rope we tied her up with.”

                                                               *      *      *

Outside of Happy Meadows Rest Home, Fenton closed the door to his mother’s classic chevy and duck walked back over to us. Rico and I remained crouched in the shadows next to the side of the main entrance.

“You look ridiculous when you do that.” I teased him.

“I was trying to stay low and stay out of the lights. I didn’t want to crawl around on my hands and knees. You know…because of dirt and germs. Fenton confessed. He held his inhaler in his right hand.  

“I didn’t realize you had asthma.” Rico said, as Fenton put his inhaler into the pocket of his letterman’s jacket.

“It’s not bad. My asthma seems to be seasonal. Better to be safe than sorry though.” Fenton patted the pocket where he put the inhaler

I looked at his jacket. “Why are you wearing that? You didn’t letter in anything in High School.”

“Yes, I did. You probably don’t remember. I was one of the managers for track and field my senior year. You would have been just a freshman then.”

“Lettering for managing instead of participating, huh. Isn’t that like a consolation prize?” Rico asked.

“The coach said I was handy to have around with the ole stopwatches. Could keep track of seven guys at the same time. Worked out the average of the distance runners individual times at practices with my trusty slide rule for the coach.”

“How come I’ve never seen you wear the jacket before.” I remarked while noticing some more headlights coming up about a mile down the highway leading in from town.  

“I wore it for a couple of months when I first got it because I thought the jacket might be a chick magnet. But it turns out when I explain how I lettered, the jacket had just the opposite effect. But it’s our first cool fall night, so I thought, why not. A coat is a coat.”

If nothing else, I always admired Fenton’s ability to be pragmatic, move on, ever forward with his life.

Rico looked up at the approaching car lights too. “That joker is really hauling ass.”

It was true. The vehicle made the corner turn heading towards the rest home and nearly tipped over in doing so. Then the driver straightened the car out and gunned the engine.

Sal came around from the back of the building, looked up and started firing at the vehicle.

“Jax, he’s going to ram the building. Shoot at the tires.” He shouted.

“Huh?” was my witty reply.

“With the shotgun!” Sal screamed as he continued to fire at the wheels of the oncoming car.

“I looked down at the 12 gauge that I was holding.    

Chapter 24 - It's the Small Things That Can Kill You - He's Not Supposed to Be Here

Chapter 24 – He’s Not Supposed to Be Here

The car that had just pulled in idled in the parking lot for a brief period. It looked familiar to me. Both doors flew open and both occupants, driver and passenger stepped out of opposite sides, pausing to stretch and converse. This seemed a strange tactical way to begin a frontal assault. Neither of them seemed to be armed. Sal relaxed his grip on the Mosberg and lowered the barrel.

“He was just being an asshole. He didn’t mean what he said. I really hate it when he drinks.” A familiar voice said. “Thanks for coming over so quickly.” The larger bear-like figure brushed his shaggy long black hair out of his face. He was clad in a red hoodie. It was Rico.

“It was easier this way. Jerry’s place is hard to find if you’ve never been there before. Whoever Jax was sending would probably just get have gotten turned around. This way we can all go over to the diner together.” It was Fenton’s voice. I knew that car was familiar. It belonged to his mother. Fenton had been trying to save up for a car of his own, but he kept blowing the money on comic books and other crap he really didn’t need. The car in question was really a sweet ride. It was a 1956 blue and white Bel-Air sedan. A classic.

“Hey, it looks like there has been a power failure.” Fenton observed. “The lights are all out.”

I turned to Sal. “The two guys are friends of mine. I called the big one just a while ago. They were going to go out to eat with us and help out when we move Frank to another location. What do we do now?”

“Call them over here.” Sal said.

“Fenton, we are over here.” I shouted. Then I thought better of it. I looked at Sal. “Maybe I shouldn’t have shouted.”

It could work to our advantage. They don’t have a count on how many of us are outside or inside now.”

“How many of them are there?” I asked.

“Technically just two. The ones that came in the tan station wagon. Newspaper guy and the other who drove up with him.”

“So, the other guy cut the power line.” I reasoned.

“Exactly. Funny though. Places like this usually have auxiliary lighting systems. You know, like backup generators that kick in during storm blackouts.” Sal handed the shotgun to me and drew a .45 semiautomatic from his waistband. Suddenly lights came back on in the main lobby but not the parking lot.

“There they are. The back up system must be a bit sluggish for some reason.”

“They just built this place last year. Maybe they don’t have all of the bugs out of it yet.” I conjectured.

“Could be. I’m going around back. The power coming back on might spook this other guy. I’m going to take advantage of his confusion. Take the other two into the lobby and wait for me. I’ll just be a few minutes. Let me know if any others come.”

I swallowed hard. “Are we expecting others?”

“Usually, they have two cars in a situation like this in case one car breaks down. Plus, Joey’s called Tony about this mess. Tony’s sending some guys. Just keep you head down and don’t call attention to yourself.” Then Sal moved off. I noticed that he was pretty spry for as large as he was.

“Cripes Jaxon! What are you doing with that thing.” Rico pointed at the shotgun I was now holding. I was crouched now in the shadows holding this massive 12 gauge weapon. Rico crouched down beside me.

“I have no idea.” I muttered. “We need to get inside. What are you doing here?”

“Jerry was being a jerk. He got drunk and was watching Captain Zap’s All-Star Wrestling on channel 7. He wanted to practice the atomic butt drop on me. I couldn’t wait for the ride you sent me. I needed to get away from him, so I called Fenton.”

Fenton came over and crouched beside us. “Why are we crouched in the dark?” he asked. I briefly gave them both the synopsis of the potential trouble brewing.

All Fenton said was “Oh.” Then he said, “I forgot my drink and my inhaler. They are in the car.” Fenton then proceeded to duckwalk with great precision over to the chevy, open the door, and finally, dig around the interior looking for his inhaler. The cabin light on the roof of the car illuminated both his and our presence outside Happy Meadows.

“Madre Dios, Fenton. Hurry up!” Rico hissed.

                                                                 *      *      *

Artie Best had tagged along with Zach ‘The Hack’ Coleman on this, his first job reluctantly. Zach was supposed to eliminate Frank Calabrese. He was supposed to wait until Frank was alone and put a bullet in his brain pan. They weren’t getting paid enough for the complications they had already endured, in his opinion.

As Artie crept through a side door, he shook his head. Zach must have been crazy, he thought, to try to take a professional like Frank down in a place like Happy Meadows. A place with dozens of witnesses, Then, who of all people shows up but Joey Flowers. Nobody had told them. He was just the driver on this expedition. He was new and he was plenty nervous.

Once he had cut the power to Happy Meadows, he thought Zach would be in and out. Now, as he approached the lobby, he saw Zach reading a newspaper. “What the hell?” He saw that there was some old lady talking to Zach. He approached cautiously, gun drawn,

“My son-in-law got a promotion yesterday.” Phyllis Lawton said with pride to the man with the newspaper. She looked up at Artie. Phyllis daintily waved at him. Artie, perplexed, waved back.

“Zach, are we done now?” Artie said to Zach nervously.

“He’s not supposed to be here.” Phyllis said.

“Shut up.” Artie said to Phyllis. She seemed to take it in stride.

“Zach, I said are we done here?” Artie was yelling now.

“I’d say he is, at least.” Joey Flowers popped up from behind the couch Phyllis and Zach were sitting on.

In a state of disbelief, Artie kept his gun on Joey and approached Zach, who still held onto his newspaper with both hands. He tried to pull the paper away from him. It tore. His fingers were superglued to the paper. His arms were held up by a nylon rope that was wrapped around his neck. The sofa supported Zach’s back.  There was a bullet hole in his forehead and a corresponding exit wound in the back.  

Artie gasped and then felt the barrel of a .25 caliber semiautomatic in the back of his neck.

“Don’t move. It’s good advice. Don’t be foolish like Zach was. Clara’s voice was firm.

Clara had remembered Frank had taken the small gun away from Danny’s nephew Norbert after the kid dropped it several days ago in Larue’s Diner. She had found it in Frank’s trench coat.

“He’s not supposed to be here.” Phyllis said again.

“Tell him why Phyllis.” Clara said.

“Because he’s dead.” Phyllis answered.

Joey smiled. “Good work!” He handed her a small roll of bills. She snatched them up and stretched. “Easiest money I ever made.” Phyllis seemed to have ice water in her veins. She went back to her room.