Summer of Love Part II

         Saturday
         July 7th, 2007
         12:01 P.M.

         Corporal Dominguez Santana Staunton opened his eyes after a few minutes of unconsciousness. The light from the noontime sun almost blinded him. He felt like he’d been hit with a sledgehammer twice in the center of his chest. In a daze he sat up and looked around. He wasn’t sure what had just happened, but he had a pretty good idea. Looking down at his police polo, he saw two small entry holes; 9 MM if his eyes still served him right. He felt a throbbing pain in the back of his head. Must be where I hit the pavement. Upon touching his scalp, blood ran down into his palm.
         “What the fuck just happened?” said the corporal out loud. There was no one around to hear him. The street was deserted. Where the hell is everyone? There were plenty of people here earlier.
         Still prostrate, he fumbled for his radio and called for backup. He didn’t feel much like using the standard police codes. Fuck ‘em, he’d just speak some real English. “Dispatch, we have a shooting on the 1300 block of Franklin Street. Officer down, I repeat, officer down. Requesting EMS and additional units on scene. Suspects are four Hispanic males in a black Chevy Suburban with Virginia dealer tags.”
         Dropping the radio’s extension, he unbuckled his heavy belt. He ripped off his shredded polo so only his bullet-proof Kevlar vest and undershirt were showing. He knew he was one lucky bastard.
         He smiled. D.S. Staunton was glad to be alive.

*******************************

         Saturday
         July 7th, 2007
         12:04 P.M.

         Martin Sullivan was staring out of the bathroom window on Sam O’Malley’s second-floor. His heart sank when he saw the cruisers flying down the street towards the house. The cops were coming.
         “Shit, Sam. The cops are outside!” he yelled down to the first floor where O’Malley was still watching CourtTV. In the time it would have taken him to reply, Sam ran up the stairs and peered out the window, taking great care not to be seen. This time, Martin was right. The cops were outside. A shitload of them, too. About eight Crown Victorias were parked on their street with their blue lights flashing. But why here? Why now? One of the neighbors must have told the police about the coke deals. Or maybe something else happened on the street at another house.
         Then it hit him. Felipe’s people must have called in an anonymous tip.
         Fuck.
         Not only did they have about 50 grand in coke and another 50 in cash in the house, but there was a goddamn body in the basement. It was a sick-fuck murderer’s body, yes, but it was incriminating nonetheless. There was only one thing to do: load up the guns and wait.
         “Martin, go get the baddest heat we have in the house and shut all of our blinds. Fucking Salvatrucha called the cops on us.” Sam’s eyes were wide open and crazed. He stood there like a deer staring down an eighteen-wheeler.
         Martin Sullivan forgot about the cops for a second. He was getting sick and tired of Sam always barking orders at him and never doing anything himself. “How do you know that? They might know about the coke or some shit. You’re losing it.” he said calmly.
         “Just trust me on this one, I’m almost positive.” Sammy looked like he didn’t want to argue any longer. Though Sullivan was not dumb enough to buy into the inebriated and paranoid O’Malley’s theory completely, he knew that there was no sense in arguing with him. The fucking cops were raiding the house and they only had minutes to act.
         “Alright man, I’ll grab the toasters.” Sullivan said in hushed tones.
         Sam turned to him and shouted, “You are not a fucking rapper, Martin! For the last time, stop saying that stupid shit!” He sweated like he had just done two hours on the treadmill. He had ingested more snow than a 500 pound man should be able to handle.
         “Jesus Christ, man. What is your problem? You need to stop putting so much of that shit up your nose.” Martin stormed out to get the guns. There was no more time to bicker.

         Sam sat there with his AK-74M assault rifle in his lap, foot tapping nervously. Martin stood by the door cradling an automatic shotgun under his arm. They thought that any second the front door would come down and the SWAT team would come through with their MP5s and AR-15s. It would be an absolutely devastating bloodbath in which the two young men would almost certainly be killed or critically wounded. There wasn’t much hope for them at this point, they thought.
         However that door would never come down and the police never would bust in. There would be no gunfight nor would there be a standoff. In fact, the police wouldn’t even knock on the door. Some plainclothes detectives would later come by the residence to ask if anyone inside had witnessed the shooting of Corporal D.S. Staunton, but no one would be home.
         But for now the two coked-up and armed young men lay in wait like soldiers in a foxhole for a foe that would not even confront them. Not on that day at least.
         The confrontation would come later.


********************
         
         Saturday
         July 7th, 2007
         11:57 A.M.
         
         Ken Little was stunned. He could barely move. Right outside his bay window, not fifty feet away, the Mexicans had shot the policeman and driven off. As the cop lay there, probably bleeding to death, all Ken could do was stare. His jaw had dropped so low it almost disconnected from the rest of his skull and his eyes were as vacant as a shitty motel. He could not even move his hands, let alone operate a touch-tone phone to dial 911.
         This man is going to die because of me. I am a terrible citizen. No, I’m a terrible person. An awful, awful person.
         Time seemed to be frozen as that cop lay there helpless and completely still. Little had never seen anyone get killed before. He’d never even seen a dead body, even at a funeral. He never muscled up the courage to glance inside an open casket. Now there was nothing he could do but look.
         Then a crazy thing happened. The cop sat up. He started talking into his walkie-talkie, probably calling in the reinforcements.
         Little couldn’t believe his eyes, he thought for sure...
         He felt a surge of relief as the policeman took off his shirt. He was wearing a bulletproof vest. He had just been knocked out, that was all.
          Ken jumped out of his chair as a strange giggle emanated from his larynx. The bonds that had been holding him in mental limbo were broken. He felt like he was back from the dead. But that police officer was the real Lazarus: getting shot two times at almost point blank range and surviving was some feat. Ken Little wasn’t by any means a very religious man but now seemed like a great time to cross himself and say at least one Hail Mary for that cop.
         He ran down the stairs and out the front door with agility he never knew he had. He said nothing to his wife and kids who were sitting at the dining room table, oblivious to the tragedy that had been averted. He sprinted the fifty-odd feet to where the Suburban had been and knelt down next to the wounded officer.
         Damn it if that cop didn’t greet Ken Little with a big grin. “How ya doin’ today, guy?” said the policeman.
         Shocked at his cheerful demeanor, Little stuttered. “I...I...I saw the whole thing happen.”
         “Shit, that means I have some paperwork to do.” The policeman’s grin widened. “Are you willing to come downtown and make a statement?”
         “Of course, any...anything to help.” Ken was happy the man was alive but he still had the odd feeling he was talking to a ghost. He had never seen such an astounding thing in all his life.
         The cop extended his hand as he lay on the asphalt. “Corporal D.S. Staunton, Alexandria police.” He said it with a Southern-fried emphasis on the “po”.
         Ken shook D.S. Staunton’s hand. “Ken Little.” He cracked a smile. “I’m glad you’re OK, Corporal Staunton. You seem to be taking all of this...awfully good.”
         “Awfully well. My mom was a fascist when it came to grammar.” D.S. Staunton winked at Little. “This is just how I deal with challenging situations. Joke around so much that you start to forget what deep shit you’re in. Or could have been in.”
         “I hear you loud and clear.” said Ken Little. The sound of police sirens drew nearer.
         Staunton sat up and leaned in close to Little. “Tell you God’s honest truth, I’m just smiling because I’m glad I get to see another day.”
         Ken laughed. “I am, too.”

**********************

         Saturday
         July 7th, 2007
         1:40 P.M.

         He had officially changed his mind about letting them live. El Brujo decided he was going to have to get rid of the other two putos in order to get the job done right. He had grown weary of their joking around and poor attitude. So before they left the quarry he had put a bullet in each of their heads and tossed them into the crevasse to join their vehicle and their friend in the pond.
         As he walked away from the old quarry towards the Exxon station where el Jefe said he could call a taxi, he lit a Camel and started thinking. How could anyone be sure that their missing boy, Felipe, hadn’t just taken the llello and fled? It wasn’t unheard of for psychopathic package runners such as him to decide they can fend for themselves and seize what is not theirs. Maybe it was Felipe that needed to be reached out to. And even if he had been got by these two kids, Sam and Martin, what makes the boss think they’re still at the house? Generally when someone offs a connected individual, especially an individual connected to MS, they have sense enough to at least relocate their operation, if not flee the area entirely.
         Whatever. He just followed orders and those orders said to find Felipe and do away with the two kids. If they had harmed him, he would have no problem dealing with them. Murdering a murderer was a lot easier for him than silencing an innocent witness or clipping someone who merely owed money. But he still did that when he had to. It all came down to chain of command. You followed what orders you had been given and that was that.
         He finally reached the payphone at the Exxon after about fifteen minutes of walking. He called the taxi and then punched in the boss’s burner number. The boss didn’t keep cell phones for more than 25 days as a rule due to his fear of wiretaps. And a legitimate fear it was; el Brujo had seen cops staking out the boss’s apartment on several occasions. The boss hated police more than anyone he knew.
         He listened to the buzzing tone that represented a ringing phone on the other end. He heard el Jefe pick up and he knew to start talking. “Complications arose and the men you assigned to this job have gone missing.” He said in Spanish, “Something tells me they won’t turn up again.”
         There was a sigh on the other end of the phone.
         El Brujo continued, “However, my task has been made easier by their sudden departures and as such, I will surely complete it with the greatest of care.”
         Silence on the other end.
         “I will let you know when the task is complete.”
         There was a click that signaled that el Jefe’s exit from the conversation. El Brujo put the receiver of the phone down gently. He lit another cigarette and thought about what he had to do. It would be done by tonight. And they wouldn’t even sense his presence until it was too late.
         There was no question in his mind about that.

******************************

         
         Saturday
         July 7th, 2007
         3:35 P.M.
         
         Sam O’Malley went down to the basement to get a Bud Light out of the fridge. It was all he ever drank during high school. If you showed up with Miller Lite at a party, your ass would be laughed out of the room. Now, beer is beer and it’ll still get you drunk no matter what label is on the outside of the bottle. So maybe they’d let you stay. But you would still be known as “the faggot who brought Miller Lite.”A little of that elitist mentality still held fast in his 19-year-old brain so he always bought Bud Light when it came time to re-stock the basement fridge.
         As he opened the door of the refrigerator, its light brightened the dark, dank cellar. You could still see the blood from Felipe Castaneda’s throat wound tracked all over the floor. Sam didn’t really give a shit about the mess right now, he was still reeling from their close call with the law earlier that day. Even though he saw the cops, too, and they were outside his house, O’Malley still blamed Sullivan for the whole mix-up. He grabbed a brew and let the door of the fridge close slowly on its own.
         He twisted the top off the beer and flicked it at the door to the room where he kept all the power tools and guns. That’s where good ol’ Felipe laid his head now. His corpse was wrapped up in a tarp that O’Malley had found in the garage. For the time being he’d leave him in there; he’d move the dumb bastard’s body once night came. The neighbors minded their own business for the most part, but in broad daylight it wasn’t hard to tell that a bloody, rolled-up tarpaulin was suspect.
         The brew tasted good and helped negate some of the dryness in his mouth. He just then realized he hadn’t eaten in about 36 hours. Though he still didn’t have much of an appetite, it was probably best for his head if he went to get some food. Some cheap Chinese take-out or something like that would be nice. There was a place not five minutes away that he was thinking about, it was called Peking Pagoda or something like that.
         He went upstairs and shut the door.
         The basement was dark again.

         “Martin, where the hell are you?” shouted Sam with his hands cupped around his mouth thinking that would make the sound of his voice more audible.
         “I’m watching TV, dude. What do you want?” Martin wasn’t even twenty feet away and Sam was yelling like there was a fire or something.
         “Come with me to get some food, bro. I’m fuckin’ famished. Let’s go get Chinese or something.”
         “We can’t leave the house! Not now! Are you kidding me?” How could Sam want to go out there? The last cop cars had left not ten minutes earlier; who knows what kind of trouble they could get into if they left the house. “Have you forgotten about him?” Martin pointed at the door leading to the basement.
         “Who?”
         “The package boy...Enrique, or whatever the fuck his name was.”
         “Oh yeah, him.” Sam said. “Dude, don’t worry about him right now, we’ll deal with him later. He ain’t going anywhere for now.”
         He did have a point. They could just dump the body in the river later that night. “OK, I’ll come with you. But we shouldn’t be gone too long.”
         “Agreed. Let’s roll.” They went out to the garage and hopped in Sam’s Subaru WRX sedan. Sam hit the remote with his fist and the garage door slowly opened. He backed out recklessly and sped off.

*************************

         Saturday
         July 7th, 2007
         3:45 P.M.

         El Brujo had exchanged his khaki Dickies for something a little more inconspicuous. He wanted something that didn’t say “gang member” quite so loud. His brother César was a working-man, a painter; some of his old work clothes would do the trick. All the gringos in that neighborhood would see was another Latino laborer with worn-out and paint-splattered jeans. He’d blend right in.
         He had taken the time to steal another car, a Lincoln Town Car to be exact, from his apartment building’s parking lot. He had nothing to worry about; his neighborhood wasn’t the kind of place the cops liked to patrol. They never came around because they knew they’d catch somebody doing something as soon as they got back there. It also wasn’t the kind of place where people talked to the police about anything they had seen. Anyway el Brujo’s reputation preceded him. The people of the neighborhood heard about what happened when you crossed the Medicine Man. Rumors abounded about what exactly el Brujo would do to a snitch but one thing was clear: it was not a good idea to try and find out.

         The Town Car had a smooth ride, much smoother than the Suburban’s. As much as he wanted to keep the vehicle, he knew it had to go as soon as the dirt was done. Either in the river or somewhere else, it definitely had to be ditched. He couldn’t afford to get pulled over for any reason, especially with a couple of dead coke dealers in the trunk. He didn’t want to shoot anyone else other than the targets, even if it was a cop. It would only bring him more grief from el Jefe.
         He parked the ride on Earl Road, a few streets down from Franklin. He had chosen a grimy pair of his hermano’s old overalls and a white t-shirt. He even brought along cans of paint and a set of brushes as props. Because his Smith and Wesson sounded like a cannon going off, something out of place in quiet-city Alexandria, he had opted to leave it at home. Instead he brought along a 17-shot Glock .40 equipped with a silencer and laser sight.
         High tech shit, thought el Brujo. They would never even see him coming.

********************************


         Saturday
         July 7th, 2007
         3:50 P.M.

         Ken Little had seen Corporal Staunton off as he was taken to the hospital. He had seen the bruises on Staunton’s chest and it looked like he had been hit by Alfonso Soriano’s home run swing a few times over. There was no doubt that he needed to get checked out by a physician, much to the corporal’s chagrin. He thought he was fine. He just wanted to go out and get the bastards who shot him. But when your lieutenant says, “Go to the goddamn hospital. That is a direct order,” you tend to listen.
         Despite the incident earlier, Little was still able to soak in the beautiful Saturday that it had turned out to be. He felt like all that could go wrong had already done so and that nothing else could mess this day up. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and it was about 76 degrees.
         He sat out on his deck and sipped a gin and tonic. He watched the wind rustle the leaves on the massive oak trees in his backyard. There were two mockingbirds in a pine about twenty feet away and their incessant chattering amused Ken as he embraced the burn of the gin in his throat. Everything was finally back to normal.
         That’s when he noticed the man at the back of his neighbor’s house. He was short and was wearing overalls splattered with white and yellow paint. Little couldn’t really tell because of some bushes in the way but he didn’t think he’d ever seen this man around before. He was probably just working on their newly installed back porch. Most likely he was just another painter doing his job and making his money honestly. He couldn’t help but notice the man’s dark, Latin complexion.
         That has nothing to do with who he is, Ken. Stop being that way.
         He liked to think it wasn’t his race, but there was something about this man that rubbed Ken Little the wrong way.  He didn’t know what it was yet, but he would figure it out soon. He turned away and took another pull of the gin and tonic before heading inside.

*************************

         Saturday
         July 7th, 2007
         4:17 P.M.

         Sam and Martin came through the front door, bags of grease-pit quality Chinese food in hand.  There had been an obscene line for take-out at the restaurant and they also had to wait for their food to be prepared so it took a little longer than they had expected. All that trouble for some goddamn orange chicken and fried dumplings. It probably wouldn’t even be that good considering the rush that Peking Pagoda had obviously been in. It didn’t make much sense for a crappy Chinese place to be busy at a quarter to four but they had already arrived so they figured there was no point in going anywhere else.
         The house was just as they had left it thirty minutes earlier. The big-screen television was still on and almost every light on the main floor was still illuminated. They sat down on the gigantic couch in the well-lit living room and started to eat.
         After no more than a minute, Sam turned to Martin. He gestured around the room in a circular motion. “See? You were trippin’ out for no reason, dude.” he said. “There are no burglars, no terrorists, no sociopathic, crazed serial killers. And there sure as shit are no cops in my house. I told you.”
         Martin couldn’t take anymore of Sam’s hateful and proud demeanor. “What is this, second grade? Jesus Christ, this isn’t a game of ‘I told you so’, you faggot. So shut the fuck up.”
         Sam flipped Martin the bird. “No, you shut the fuck up.” He chuckled at Martin’s feeble attempt to assert himself.
         Martin turned away from the TV screen. “Fuck you, dude! You’re always talking an unbelievable amount of shit to me. Every goddamn day is like this, man...every goddamn day.” He sat there for a second as he thought up a good line. Preferably something that sounded like it was from a movie. “Why don’t you just go somewhere where you can preach your gospel to a congregation that actually wants to hear it?”
         Sam laughed out loud. No chance did Martin just make that one up. “What movie did you get that one from? Casino? Mean Streets? Taxi Driver? That line has Scorsese written all over it.”
         “You’re a fucking prick. You know that, O’Malley?” Martin got up from his seat and punched Sam hard, right in the gut.
         Sam was absolutely stunned. “That was a cheap-shot, you fucking clown!” Sam stood up from his seat and stuck Martin right in the jaw with a mean left. Martin hit the floor with a thud. He quickly arose from the shag carpet and let Sam have it right in the nose. What happened next is best described as a Tasmanian Devil-like whirl of punches and kicks and smacks and slaps. After about two minutes of chaos, with inane chatter from World’s Wildest Police Videos as their soundtrack, the two stopped fighting.
         Wheezing asthmatically in symphonic unison, Sam and Martin stood up in a daze. They often argued like they were nine or ten years younger than they actually were. Things between the two could get pretty heated at times but usually it would just blow over after either fifteen minutes of dead, purposeful silence, an impromptu wrestling match, or an all-out fist fight. What had happened was an odd combination of all three.
         It was quiet again in the O’Malley house. All except for the TV. “...Sergeant Mariano Soldano of the Riverside County Sheriff’s Department was struck by .45 caliber bullets in his legs, arms, and torso as he tried to break up the escalating bar fight. Miraculously, he survived and was able to testify against the man who shot him. Faced with two 25-years-to-life sentences, it looks like this crook will be spending the rest of his life behind bars, not in them...”
         They looked at each other and looked back at the screen. Neither of them could hold back their laughter any longer.
         “That was one of the most ridiculous things I have ever heard, dude. You can always count on FOX to mine gems like that one.” Sam said. “Shit, it sounds like something you would say, Martin.”
         Martin laughed. He assumed that after their brawl, Sam wouldn’t actually mean something like that. “Fuck you, man.” he said jovially. “You hear me? Fuck. You.”
          Sam chuckled. They were both a little bloody and banged up but they had seen worse. They sat back down on the brown, wrap-around couch staring mindlessly at the massive TV as footage of a cop getting run down by a pickup truck played over and over. Finally, Sam dumped a full eightball of coke onto the glass coffee table and did a bump. Martin followed suit. Soon they had a nice buzz going. Everything was going to be alright.
         Martin stood up after the segment on the dude who fell through the roof of a liquor store was over. “I’m getting a beer.” he said calmly.
          “Can you get me one, too?” Sam asked.
         “Say the magic word.” Martin sing-songed.
         “How about this: Can you please get me a beer?” O’Malley grinned. “Is that good enough? Shithead.”
         “What was that last thing you said? Was that supposed to be an insult? I think I’m going to get you a Miller, you pussy.”
         “Fine, be that way.” O’Malley tried to keep a straight face. It only resulted in more laughter from both of them.
         “You know what, man? I apologize for hitting you.” Martin said sincerely.
         “Yeah dude, it’s cool. I apologize for talking so much shit.” Sam replied.
         “No worries, homie. I’ll go grab us some beers.” Martin opened the door to the basement and went downstairs into the darkness.

         He came up a few minutes later with two cold Bud Light longnecks. He handed Sam his beer and immediately cracked his own. He chugged and chugged until there wasn’t a drop left.
         Sam hadn’t even got past the label yet. “Damn Martin, you’re crushing ‘em today.”
         Martin smiled. “Shit, it’s got to get done somehow, my man.”
         “True.” Sam agreed.
         
         For the rest of the day they just watched TV, got drunk, and got high. Martin could no longer count how many episodes of Forensic Files and American Justice they had seen. Their plan to go out and kill all the gangsters they could had fallen to pieces thanks to the collaborative intoxicative efforts of cocaine and alcohol. That first kill, the Felipe kid, was just so convenient. They didn’t really feel much like going out for the rest of the day.
         Sam checked his Movado watch. “Damn, how the hell did it get to be eight thirty at night, dude?”
         “It’s eight thirty? No shit?” said Martin, dumbfounded. “That means we’ve been sitting here for over four fucking hours, not doing shit!” He started laughing when he realized how little he cared.
         Sam laughed too. “Whatever, man. There’s not shit to do around here anyways.”
         “Yeah, you’re right. Fuck it.” said Sullivan.

*******************************

         Saturday
         July 7th, 2007
         8:02 P.M.

         I need to get out of this goddamn hospital, thought Corporal Dominguez Santana Staunton. He had already talked to his mother and explained to her what happened. She had started bawling and shouting at him in Spanish, screaming at him for ever choosing a dangerous occupation like being a police officer. After she calmed down, she was just happy that her only child was still breathing.
         Fuck this. He got up out of the uncomfortable bed and put on some clothes. As he was tying his shoes he thought about what the Lieutenant had said. The only orders were to “go to the goddamn hospital.” He never said anything about staying there.
         He slipped his shoes on and started walking out of the room and then he saw the cop. It was standard procedure to place a uniformed officer outside the door of a policeman hospitalized after to a shooting. It was partly for protection and partly for restraining convalescing patients like Staunton who wanted to check out early.
         The young officer was one he recognized as Master Officer John Stevens. Stevens tapped Staunton’s shoulder as he left the room. “Where are you going, sir?”
         “I’m going to take a piss, Stevens. Let me be.”
         “Staunton, I’m under specific orders not to let you leave this room.”
         D.S. Staunton extended his index and middle finger on his bicep, mimicking the stripes on a corporal’s uniform. “I’m telling you to back off. That’s a direct order. I’ll be back in five minutes.”
         The young officer didn’t have much of a choice. He had been given an order from a superior officer. “Yes sir.” he said as he let his eyes drop towards the ground.
         “Thank you, Stevens. I’ll be back.”
         But he wouldn’t be returning any time soon. He was going to check out the scene of the crime again. See if there was anything that the CS detectives had missed. His gut instinct told him to go talk to that Ken guy who saw everything.
         Damn, my chest hurts, he thought.
         He went out to the lobby of Inova Alexandria Hospital and went through the automatic sliding doors, past people with walkers and wheelchairs. He walked out to the street and hailed a cab. He got into the backseat and was on his way home in no time. He had to grab his car and some other supplies. Soon he’d be on his way.

******************************

         Saturday
         July 7th, 2007
         8:43 P.M.

         Ken Little was relaxing in his La-Z-Boy, attempting to read the Washington Post Magazine that had come that day. He always wondered why the Sunday Post extras sometimes came on Saturday. It never made any sense to him. But that wasn’t what was eating at him.
         He just couldn’t shake it. Ever since he saw the cop get shot, he could not help but wonder what the hell was going on in his neighborhood. He was relieved, however, that he still hadn’t seen a dead body. That was one streak he wanted to continue.
         But what about that mysterious painter in his neighbor’s backyard? What was his story? Obviously just because he was a Latino in an almost exclusively white neighborhood didn’t mean he was up to no good. There was just something about his face Ken Little hated.
         But those men earlier...the men who shot the cop...
         It hit him like a swing from Ali.
         The painter was the man sitting in the passenger seat of that Suburban. He hadn’t done the shooting himself but he was there all the same. For all Ken knew, he could still be in the neighborhood. The painter could be breaking into his house right now, knowing full well what Little had seen.
         His home was in jeopardy.
         His wife and kids were at risk.
         Ken Little ran to the room he used as a home-office. He reached for the phone to call the police.
          He dialed 9.
          He dialed 1.
         But he hung up before he finished. He looked over at the Monet replica on the wall. He jumped out of his seat and moved the painting to reveal a safe behind it. He punched in the code and dialed up the combination with great speed and dexterity. He flung the safe door open.
         Inside was a stack of money, a diamond ring, and numerous bank statements.
         Behind all of that though, was a .38 caliber revolver and a box of hollow-point bullets. Ken Little had bought the gun after he heard about one of his co-workers getting carjacked while driving in Southeast D.C. He bought it to protect his family in the extreme case that his house was broken into. He prayed that he would never have to use it.
         That extreme situation had arisen in Ken’s mind, however.
         He continued to pray.

         Now armed, he searched his house right, left, and sideways. There was no sign of forced entry and no trace of any mysterious intruders. Maybe he was imagining things again. Maybe, just maybe, he was mistaken about that painter. Stranger things had definitely happened. Ken Little decided he would take a look outside. He might even go check his neighbors’ houses.
         Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. Make sure everything is OK.
         He stuffed the gun in the waistband of his pants and untucked his shirt to conceal it. “Honey, I’m going outside for a second.” he shouted.
         “OK, sweetie.” called his wife from upstairs.
         Ken Little opened the door walked out into the dying light.

***************************

         Saturday
         July 7th, 2007
         8:48 P.M.

         These kids drink a lot of beer, thought el Brujo as he watched the lanky one open the fridge. He never drank much himself. Some screwdrivers now and again, but never beer. He didn’t like the taste at all.
         That was neither here nor there at this point though. His mind had been wandering as he lay in wait in the basement work-room with Felipe Castaneda’s body. He hadn’t really moved for almost five hours now, waiting for it to get dark outside so he could do this thing and get the hell out. According to the small six inch by six inch window in the upper corner of the room, it was now night-time. The right moment had come.
         He silently opened the work-room door the rest of the way and walked up behind the skinny kid. He spun around when he heard the footsteps but it was already too late. El Brujo put a single bullet right in the kid’s brain. The white refrigerator was now speckled with crimson.
         Poor bastard. Never saw it coming.
         He walked over to the fuse box and flicked all the switches off. Now the house was pitch black. He heard muffled shouting from upstairs. It sounded like “What the fuck?” over and over but it was hard to tell through all those layers of concrete and wood.
         He walked up the flight of stairs and opened the door.
         “Martin? Is that you? What the fuck is going on?” said the voice. In the dim light, el Brujo saw the outline of the short one on the couch. He raised his Glock and emptied the clip into the dark form. The silenced rounds sounded like arrows being released from a bow. A muffled thud as the short one slumped to the ground indicated that it was all over. The targets had been liquidated.
         That was even easier than I thought it was going to be, thought el Brujo.
         He went downstairs and flipped the switches back to their original positions and the lights flickered on. The lanky boy was lying on the floor, his body keeping the fridge’s door from shutting. In the workroom, Felipe Castañeda lay splayed out on the floor in a pool of his own, drying blood. El Brujo went back upstairs to make sure the short kid hadn’t miraculously survived.
         No chance.
         He was the biggest mess of all. That’s what taking eleven bullets to the torso and head will do to one’s person. El Brujo couldn’t even look.
         Just then, the doorbell rang.
         ¡Hijo de puta madre! Why now? Why here?
         He ran over and looked out the window facing the front door. A man who looked to be in his late 30s was standing there looking very nervous. Had he seen something?
         Oh no. As much as I don’t want to do it, he probably knows too much. I am not going to jail..
         El Brujo opened the door and said, “Hola, amigo. ¿Que pasa?”
         The man stood there staring at el Brujo’s chest. He didn’t say a word. Brujo looked down and saw a large splatter of blood on his overalls.
         Jesucristo es mi salvador.
         He reached for his Glock.
         The man reached for his own waistband and pulled out a snub-nose .38.
         El Brujo aimed at the man’s head and pulled the trigger but all he heard was a click. He had forgotten to reload. Almost simultaneously, the other man’s gun went off. El Brujo felt a burning in his chest. He fell to the ground like a rag doll. Looking down, he saw a dark-red spot growing bigger and bigger in the middle of his chest. Surely he would be dead soon.
         He looked like a pale department-store mannequin that had toppled over onto itself. He lay there bleeding, fading.

*****************************

         Saturday
         July 7th, 2007
         8:55 P.M.          

In complete shock from what had happened, Ken Little stepped over the dying man and went inside the house. To his left, blood splattered the walls and his neighbor Sam O’Malley lay there riddled with bullets.
         Oh my God.
         He looked desperately for a phone. In the kitchen to the right of the front door, he found one. There were stacks of money and bricks of white powder everywhere in the kitchen. Broken pots, pans, and Pyrex measuring cups lined the sink.
         What the hell is going on in here?
         Ken Little dialed 9.
         He dialed 1.
         This time, he finished. He dialed 1.
         “911, what is your emergency?” said the female dispatcher.
         Little gulped. “Uh, yeah. I need to report a murder.”
         D.S. Staunton snuck up from behind and pointed his chrome .380 at Ken Little’s head. “Do not move a fucking muscle, Mr. Little.” He had seen the brief gun battle from down the street. He came inside as soon as he could.
         Kenneth Jameson Little dropped the phone and started crying.