Never, Ever Relax

Second person anti-hero story. A continuation of my second person story of a man robbed by a hooker tracking her down and revenging himself. “Tough S**t, Pepper."

A continuation of my second person story of a man robbed by a hooker tracking her down and revenging himself. “Tough S**t, Pepper."
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Pepper the w***e taken care of, you check your watch. Damn. Only a couple hours before you have to be at work. Enough time for a meal.

Grabbing a cab, you settle into the backseat. “Sixth and Main.” 

A hard night and still hungover, you nod off for a few minutes. When you wake, you find a f*****g cow pasture zipping by between poles. “What’a hell,” you shout, “we doin’ here?”

“Shortcut,” the driver explains.

“Bullshit.” You look over his shoulder at the meter. Seven-plus miles. It’s a two mile trip. You go there several times a week.

You grab the b*****d around the neck, using one hand. Your other shoves a corner of your Zippo lighter against the back of his head. “Guess what, cocksucker. You better hit that meter. You’re taking me there for free. Aren’t you?”

He says nothing, but you can feel him squirming. He turns left at the next corner, you sitting back, hoping he’s not too nervous to drive.

A half-block from the diner, you tell him to, “Pull over,” and get out.

“Thanks for nothing,” you mutter.

As you walk, you hear tires squealing and see a yellow streak as the taxi spins out of sight. 

“B******s.”

As always, you stand back, looking through the front windows of the eatery before going in. Nothing but tourist and worker types. Nobody seems to be looking around, as if for someone. No eyes shifting right to left, or the reverse. No one sitting slumped over coffee, hats pulled down. Good.

Going inside, you take your regular corner booth near the left-end exit. Expecting you, Max has stacked a couple of empty boxes on it to keep customers away. No need. Plenty of empty seats around.

You nod at Max, the owner, standing behind the counter, itself extending most of the length of the building. He points upward, over his head, at the daily special, and you nod. Swiss steak. Better than yesterday’s, a composite called refrigerator stew including any leftovers from the week before. It’s Max’s way of cleaning out his icebox.

A few minutes later, he comes over with a tray containing your meal, gravy sloshed from the meal to a saucer containing a couple slices of bread.

“I’ll get you more bread,” he says.

“Don’t bother.” You smile, in familiar territory. You know that in case of trouble the ex-marine stores a sawed-off under the counter. You gave it to him. Taken off a clumsy mugger. 

“Jimmy was here, looking for you.”

“Jimmy talks too f*****g much.”

“That he does.”

As you eat, you casually keep an eye on other customers, subconsciously trying to tell if they’re doing the same with you. You recognize most of them. There are several factories in the neighborhood, the same workers routinely eating here. A couple of teens sit in one booth, eyes on each other. They wouldn’t see you if you were on fire, you think. It’s one of the few places you can relax. Except, possibly, for that one last time. The time you want to avoid.

Finished, you stand and nod at Max. No need to pay. He has you on a tab. You leave by the side door, hearing it slam behind you.

Down an alley and over two blocks brings you to an abandoned house, boarded up with plywood over windows and doors. The panel on a side door is on hidden hinges. After looking around you open it a few inches.

“Twinkie? It’s me.” The words echo through empty rooms, bouncing back at you. You wait.

“Come on in.”

Twinkie, all simpering six-foot-six 230 lbs of pure muscular homosexual, is lying on a ratty couch, watching tv. Seeing you, he snaps it off.

“Johnny and Simms brought the s**t over last night,” he says. “I admit, I’m nervous as hell having it around. Been up all f*****g night.”

“When’s it going down?”

“Buyers are due across the street at three. Pete’s watching from the front. After they been there a while, sure it’s safe with no surprises lurking, he’ll bring them here.” He stands, stretching to rub both hands across the ceiling. “Joe’s upstairs with the product.”

“He gonna be in’na wall with me?”

“Yeah. Least Pete will. Soon’s he lets them in.”

You make small-talk with Twinkie for a few minutes, then go into another room, one on the left of Twinkie’s.

One reason for the empty house is that there are firing ports in three of the walls leading into the selling room. The buyers will know that one or more of those holes shields a man with a gun, but not which one or how many. That arrangement certainly keeps hijacking down. In this case it will be you and Pete, one on each side.

You’re carrying your old SW Police Special, but don’t want to use it unless necessary. The ballistics can be traced back to your old cop job. Instead, you find a Mini-Uzi lying on a table, along with thin-plastic surgical gloves. Putting them on, you light a cigarette and go over to the firing port to wait.

“S**t.” You smell burning plastic as the coal gets too close to a finger. Christ. You can’t help being a little nervous. But it pays well, which is what counts.

A cellphone buzzes. Twinkie answers, listens a minute and says, “They’s coming. I’ll signal Joe to start bringing it down.” He thumps twice on the ceiling.

The Uzi’s greasy cold metal is hard to hold onto with these gloves. You mentally curse yourself for not noticing earlier. Small and light, that 9mm has a good enough kick on auto without taking a chance of it slipping out of your hands at a crucial moment. You look around, not finding any rags in the room. Newspapers in a corner won’t do. You use your handkerchief for a tighter grip.

Almost simultaneously, you hear the outer door opening in the selling room, as well as footsteps coming down from the second floor. A silhouette that must be Joe passes your doorway.

Looking through a hole, you see Pete entering, two men in casual work clothes behind him. He nods and leaves your sight. You hear a door close on the other side of that room.

Now is the time to be nervous. The transaction is going down as planned. Not so, though, as you feel adrenalin course through your veins, calmness and a lack of time-sense settling over you as you keep your eye to the hole, Uzi hanging by your side.

One of the strangers carries a large plastic grocery bag which he sits on the couch next to Twinkie.

That’s when things begin happening.

You’re alerted by a strangely staccato thumping sound at the staircase. Against orders, you take your eyes from the firing port, raising the gun to cover your own doorway. It’s a sixth sense. Something isn’t right.

When Pete comes in, pistol raised, you give him two taps in the head. He shouldn’t be there. He should be in another room, eyes to his own firing port. At the same time, you scream out, “TWINKIE!”

A moment later, shots come from the selling room. You don’t bother to look as you jam your Uzi into a hole and give a long blast at shoulder level. When you do look inside, you see the strangers lying on the floor, Twinkie crouching, half-seen, behind the couch.

Stepping over Pete’s body, you rush into the selling room, going across to the outside door to look out. Two men are getting out of a green Ford. When they see you, with your weapon, they get back in and speed off, leaving rubber behind.

Twinkie’s unhurt, though Joe’s dead, his throat slit ear-to-ear.

“Thanks for warning me,” Twinkie says. “Gave me enough time to draw first.”

“What happened?”

“Someone must’a got to Pete.”

“Prolly. Now what? You need me?”

He stoops to where the bag has spilled cash across one corner of the couch. At least they did bring the money. Probably in case the hijack plan had to be abandoned. He grabs a good-sized chunk and hands it to you.

“Na. The Wops got a cleanup squad I can call on. They’s pros at that s**t. Looks like we came up on top, both product and money.”

“Yeah.” Twinkie likes it, but it was too f*****g close for you. 

You pocket the cash and leave. In that neighborhood, it’s not likely cops will be called over the shooting. If they are, it takes time to get six volunteers to respond.

The End.
Charlie

Author's Note

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