The Hitman: Dirty Rotters (10 page)

“
Sorry about that,” Sally
began, “word got out faster than I had figured.”

We began walking away, back the way we
had come. At no time did I see Frank again. His watch must have
expired. The nightshift must have relieved him.

“
Did any of it help?” she
asked.

“
Yes and no.”

We walked the rest of the way through
the station in silence. Not only did I feel all eyes were on me,
but I felt as if they all were listening. Once we were safely back
inside the big Hummer, I told Sally all that Angelo had
said.

“
He was framed, Sally.
Someone is making him take the fall.”

“
It doesn’t sound good,
that’s for sure.” She started the engine and drove us back to her
place.

“
The real killer is out
there.”

I kept my attention forward as she
turned to look at me. She didn’t believe me. She had protocol to
follow. She had years of police force training to help her manage a
thought process to eliminate feelings and keep a factual path. In
her head, Angelo was guilty because the facts said so.

Evidence said so.

He even said so.

Chapter 8

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.