SAGE Ch.1: Another Day

                                               
                                           
                                                 
                                           

SAGE

 


Prologue

              Vicodin. I need a Vicodin. That would make this whole thing better.
 
              "Mike?"

                Mike snapped back into reality. ""My dad always told me 'Son, God gave you free will. You can do whatever you want with your life.' I wish I could remember those words. God, how things would've turned out differently.

              "I’ve drifted off for a second. I’m sorry. I got lost in the past again. If this is the last thing I say, I want the world to know that if I could go back I would change everything. I almost feel the strange comfort with the idea of going to jail. What do they call that doc?"

              "Guilt." The doctor said and shook his head.

              "Guilt? Ha, I guess I never looked at it that way."

              “Mike, can you tell me what happened?”

              “Ha,Ha.” The laughter came easy with a smile.

              The doctor's dark face turned to a grimace. The wrinkles on his aged brow deepened. “Mr. Sage, you understand I'm here to help you don't you? You're facing serious charges. Don't you want to get out of here? Don't you want to see your family again?"

              Mike stopped smiling. He thought about his son, Josh. It would be his 8th birthday in august. And here I am like a good father in FBI custody getting dissected by this shrink, Mike thought.

              "I didn't kill those people." He said. The motel flashed in his mind. An image of a little white pill came.
         
              “Okay, Mike I believe you. Could you tell me who killed those people at the Xanadu Motel?" The doctor said his voice calmly calculated and soothing. Verbalized Vicodin.
         
         “Shit.” Mike said. He leaned forward as much as the cuffs behind his back would allow. "I take it you know my history?"

                "Yes, the DA gave me your file." The doctor grabbed a vanilla colored folder opened it, and read, "Micheal Lee Sage, former member of the Syk Street Kings, a California based gang out of Sol Beach. It says here you guys were a white supremacist group.”
         
         “White supremacist? No, we were a bunch of whiteboys and Mexicans but we weren’t white supremacists.”

         “The detail of whether or not SSK is a white supremacist group is irrelevant. The point I want to make is that you have a record of gang affiliation.” He looked down at the folder. “And even though you never received any major convictions, I do see numerous charges for assault, and strong arm robbery.”

         Mike’s heart stopped in his chest. “All right enough doc. I’m fucked. You can say it. I know your profession requires subtlety but I know the score. I’m finished.” An image of the orange bottle of Vicodin pills on top of his dresser flashed in Mike’s head. Just one.

         The doctor took off his small bifocals. His brown eyes wide and tired, “Mike, I’m going to be honest.” He rubbed his forehead, “I like you. You’re not a bad guy. If anything you were just trying to get away from everything you did wrong in your past.”

         “Tell that to the DA. Tell that to that FBI prick Arona who told me last night that he’s going to put me away for life.” 

         “I know what happened to your father, Mike. Do you believe that was--”

         “No, no don’t bring him into this. Don’t fuckin’ do that!”

         “Mike, I’m only trying to help you--”

         .“You want to know what happened at that motel? Fine, I’ll tell ya.”
 

         


Chapter 1-Another Day



         The alarm clock rang aloud in the large apartment. From the scattered covers of a king-sized bed a hand emerges, grabbing the edges of an alarm clock through the darkness and shutting it off. The early morning light is always hard the eyes, Chris thought running cold water on his face. 5:00am just like always. He stared at himself in the mirror. He is a man of about 30 years, deep green eyes, thick reddish brown hair and a layer of stubble outlining his face. “Another morning” He uttered cracking his neck to the side. He stretched his arms, hits the floor and does his usual morning workout of 150 push ups and 50 crunches on the bathroom floor. He looked back in the mirror, a little embarrassed to see himself heaving like a beast. In high school he embraced the jock mentality and did 200 push ups a day and ran 3 miles in an impressive 17 minutes for football. Forget that. It had been years since he’d even held a football. He flexed, his arms still holding their size. Stripping the wife beater from his back he turned on the shower and looked at his stomach. The six pack of his past had long faded under the burgers and tacos. He wasn’t a fat guy, there was still a great deal of muscle there but his gut was getting bigger with each year. He smiled, “Your getting old Chris.” He looked at his chest right under his collar near the base of his throat and the smile left him. The tattoo of the lion with a crown was in a piercing black. It held a stone face vulgarity that never let him forget. The face stared at him and like the face of the devil he felt the dropping feeling in his heart like a stone getting thrown down a deep well. He got in the shower without another look. 

         A half hour later he was shaved and dressed. He buttoned his shirt, cinched the fine Swiss watch for 1:30pm, and grabbed his coat. As he prepared to leave his apartment he walked to a nearby oak dresser. Taking the key from under a statue of Mother Mary he opened up the center drawer. A gun, a 9 mil stared at him. He picked it up, checked the clip and laid it on the desk. He withdrew a few documents and a wad of cash. He closed the drawer, and locked it just as it was. The 9 mil went behind his back in the security of his belt and under the cloak of his jacket. He took the bills face counted them and put all 2000 dollars in his wallet. He made the sign of the cross and kissed his hand. “Forgive us our trespasses.” He said and walked out of his apartment.

         On the bottom floor of Chris’s apartment building, a driver waited in a black Lincoln LS. He sat impatiently, his foot tapping feverishly as he watched the recent football game on an indash TV screen. He’s an Italian by the name of Stevie Cilurzo, straight from buffalo, but his favorite team was not the Jets but the Bears. They were doing spectacular until it came time for the playoffs. Now they just ran across the field dropping passes, fumbling the ball, and scratching their heads with their left hand while they stuck their right hands and their thumbs of course up their asses. “Are you fucking kidding me?” He shouted, spewing out chunks of subway sandwich. His face turned red as a field goal is missed and his eyes bulge, followed by a restrained motion of a punch.

         “Whoa Stevie! You just start your cycle today?”

         He’s quiet for a second, taking a deep breath. “I got a lot of money on this game.”

         The man in the backseat gives a slight snicker. “I told you it was going to happen.” He said.

         “I don’t need to her this Johnny.”

         “What? What’s the big deal?” Johnny said laughing. “I told you the Bears were going to fall short again.”

         Stevie didn’t reply.

         “Where’s Chris?” Johnny said glancing at his watch. “He’s late.”

         Stevie checked the rear view mirror. “There he is now.”

         The right back door to the Lincoln opened and Chris sat down quickly on the black leather, closing the door. “Let’s go.”

         Chris and Johnny shook hands.

         “You got the papers?” Johnny asked.

         Chris pulled out the documents from his coat and handed them to Johnny. “Goldson faxed them over last night. Just another guy who skipped bail.”

         “Whoa look at this guy. Got quite a record. Robbery. Assault with a Deadly Weapon. Malicious Intent. Haven’t seen one of these in a while.”

         “Pretty standard though.” Chris said looking out the tinted backseat window.

         “Big guy. 6’7 310 pounds.”

         Chris let a small smirk fill his face. “Just cause he’s twice your size doesn’t mean you have anything to be afraid of Johnny.” Johnny was 5’6 which was a crap shoot when you’re a full-blooded Irish lad from South Boston.

         Johnny turned his head, his eyes wide. “Ha! Ha! Ha! Very fucking funny Chris! You think just because he’s got a few inches on me that I can’t take him down? You watch my friend.”

         “Okay so if he proves to be a little trouble you don’t want my help? Even if he gets you on your back or throws your around like a toddler.”

         Johnny gave off a loud laugh that sounded more like a cackle. “You’re a funny guy Chris. Real Seinfeld type shit.”

         The car got started as Stevie pulled the Lincoln into the street. It moved slowly with the quiet pacing of a lion. The V8 kicked in and the car sped up.

         “You know where it is Stevie?”

         “Ya, Chris, Goldson gave me the address last night.”

            The car sped along the passengers inside silent. “Stop at Sal’s I need some coffee.”
         Stevie shook his head.

         Johnny studied the documents, put them down and turned to the window looking at the urban world outside.

         At Sal’s they ordered muffins and coffee and sat at a table outside. They talked for a few minutes, still under the hangover of sleep.

         “Did I tell you about my cousin?”

         Chris took a chunk of muffin in his mouth and chased it with a sip of coffee. His mind was racing thinking about his wife. He snapped back to reality. “Ya, the one who is getting out in a month.”

         “Well not a month.”

         “What happened?”

         Johnny shook his head taking a sip of coffee. “I don’t know if I can tell this.” He gave a small embarrassed smile. “He was in the shower with another inmate--”

         “He didn’t…”

         “No! But in county when you take showers you take it in pairs. You hang your towel and your underwear up and do your business. Well, my cousin just got some fresh underwear, no shit stains or holes, nothing. He hung them up and after he got done another inmate tried to steal his underwear, he grabbed the underwear and played tug of war with some fat black guy ass naked.”

         Chris was laughing trying not to cough up the muffin he’d been eating. “Did he get em’ back?”

         “He got em’ back.” Johnny shook his head. “That wasn’t why he got six more months though. In order to get the drawers back he had to hit the guy.” He motioned with his fist to his eye. “Broke the guy’s orbital bone.” He laughed, cackling like a jackal. 

         Chris looked at Stevie. “You all right?”

         Stevie buried his face in his hands. “I just fucking lost a grand on the playoffs.” He sighed, his gaze intent on his half-eaten muffin. “I promised my wife and kids we’d have a big Christmas, lots of presents and food. Now I don’t think it’s goin’ to happen.”

         Chris finished off the muffin. They finished their coffee. “Well guys I say we hit the road. Let’s get this guy and get Stevie’s Christmas money back.” Chris patted Stevie on the shoulder.

         The drive took less than 10 minutes. It was a shitty apartment along 3rd street. Chris and Johnny went over the plan one last time, checked their weapons. Chris with his 9 and Johnny with a small .22 that looked like a child’s weapon.

                “Hey, Johnny I like your gun.”

         Johnny turned to him, his brown eyes in an obvious glare. “Ya thanks Chris.”

         They exited the Lincoln. Stevie drove the car away as they walked slowly up a pair of rickety metal stairs. The apartment was low-income typical of bail-jumpers. The walls were cheap discolored stucco and the apartments had single digit numbers with a letter such as A6, B3, etc. Their guy was in H5.

         They came to H5 and gave a subtle knock.


         
         “I don’t give a fuck who you represent! I paid your boss his money.” The large man took another bite of his fruit loops. Treads of milk dripped down his stubble clad white face. “He’s just another Shylock Jew. They’re all the same.”

         This guy was typical southern trash. Rebel flag tattoo on his right shoulder, with the cut off denim vest to match. He wasn’t quite fat but had a large egg shaped gut that stretched past the borders of his shirt exposing a hairy nature trail circling his caved belly button. He had a handlebar goatee and long hair. Chris was disappointed that the guy didn’t have a mullet. Guess he had something to improve on.

         “Listen Mr. Hatcher.” Johnny pulled a cheap chair that was pushed out of the even cheaper foldable table. He sat down and placed his hands on the table. He had that look of ferocity in his eyes. “Were not here to burden you Mr. Hatcher,” he gave a sly smile, “it’s just that our boss, the ‘Shylock Jew’ as you call him paid your bail of 100,000 dollars for a possession charge of O’let me guess.” He raised the spreadsheet and began to look it over. “Fuck it with out even looking at your sheet I could tell it’s probably a charge for possession of the white man’s crack.” He looked it over. “O’ shit look at that! William L. Hatcher Possession of Crystal Meth!” He threw the sheet aside. “Now no more bullshit! You know what were here to do. You can go like a man or as the blacks would say ‘like a bitch’.”

         The big man took another bite of fruit loops. He looked stunned, and just sat chewing the sugar cereal.

         Chris stood a few feet away in the kitchen or what passed for a kitchen. It was only a few feet of tile and a large stove covered in layers of dirt and God only knows what else. He looked on trying not to laugh.

         “I’m not just some tweaker! I wasn’t even buying that shit for myself. I’m a good man. A God fearing man.” He said the last words with a shakiness.

         Johnny began to laugh. “Listen Mr. Hatcher I’m not here to argue about whether you committed the crime or not. The fact is you got nailed, we paid your bail and like a good little prom date you left us with our dicks in our hands. You know I talked to the ‘Shylock Jew’ earlier today. He told me you were a big man and that I should come prepared for a fight. That you were a hick who wouldn’t go down without a solid foot in your ass.” Johnny shook his head.

         The big man slammed the spoon in the bowl. “Fuck you! This is my fucking home and you come here bearing swords under your smiles. You’re no better than your boss little man!”

         Johnny put his hands out. “Calm down.”

         The man continued his rant clinching his shoulders and fists. He was big as hell. Like a stray dog that hasn’t realized he was just another pickup for the dogcatchers.

         “You have a choice.” He stared the giant in the eyes. “Give up now. Put the fucking hand cuffs on, no fuzz, no fighting and no more bullshit and we won’t have to hurt you.”

         The man laughed. It’s a timid and meek laugh one befitting a smile child than a man of his girth. He tried to stand. Johnny was quicker and pulled the table edge up within an instant and pinned the leviathan under the paper thin table. The man moved around violently trying to throw the table aside, but Johnny seemed to be just as strong anticipating every flinch. He began to kick the large man in the groin over and over. The man reacted with more terse and flinching movements then his mind submited along with his body. Johnny removed the table and stood over the man who has puke all over his face. He leaned down, “I didn’t want to do this. I kept my fucking patience with you.” He turned his head for a second to Chris who’s nodding and trying to conceal a laugh.

         “You made this hard.” He flipped the large man over like a dead buck and pulled the handcuffs from his side. He cuffed the large man and began dragging him.

         “Johnny, stop.” Chris grabbed his shoulder. “Let’s see if he can just walk down.”

         “You sure?”

         Chris nodded helped the large man to his feet.

         “Fucking A that’s three pickups in a day.” Chris said taking a drink of a warm cup of coffee from the local 711. They were on the job for 10 hours and had been quite busy collecting jumpers.

         “Least the last one was easy.” Johnny said

         Chris looks at Johnny. He looked at the small man with the respect of a warrior. This man could walk over anybody and didn’t give a flying fuck if the guy had the Chinese army behind them. Chris touched his temple. He had taken a small jab to the temple in the early hours of the morning.

         Johnny smiled. “That little Puerto Rican got you pretty good.”

         “He got a lucky shot. Remember though I got mine and put him down hard.”

         They leaned on the hood of Lincoln drinking their coffee and eating doughnuts. It was about 11:32 on a Friday night. The city was alive and it made their work that much easier.

         “That isn’t always the case. I remember I was about 18 and I went up against the fat fucking black guy.”

         “How did it all start?”

         “I called his sister a slut. She gave the worst head of my life and it just came out natural as fuck and any way…” He goes on with the story flinging his arms around wildly. “…I’d been training for months at the gym. I was cut; I mean I could take a blade to the gut and break that shit you know what I’m saying. So her brother hits me up walks up to me like he’s King Kong. Course I smile acting like it’s nothing. I walk up to him, fists ready at my side and we get face to face. This guy had about 30 pounds on me. His breath smelt like he’d just eaten a plate of dogshit. I could get the grease from his face and cook some good Italian sausage.”

         “So what happened? You knock him out?”

         “Something like that. Let me get to the point. He’s breathin’ in my face. I got my boxing confidence bottled in my head, and I just uncorked it and let it flow out til’ I was pumped. Next thing I know, I get jabbed in the face and suck dirt harder than a Vietnamese prostitute gives a blowjob.”

         Chris starts laughing nearly coughing up the doughnut.

                “I got up though. Oh I got up and I took his ass down.”

                “That’s great Johnny. So, uh, uh if there’s a moral to this little tale it would be?”

         “Hit first, hit hard, but just hit first.”

         “Thanks I’ll keep that in mind. You still seeing that girl Clara?”

         “Ya she works at the strip club but doesn’t strip. She’s a good Catholic girl.” He said it with modesty. “She’s working to finish law school.”

         “She young?”

         “26. But she’s got a good head on her shoulders. She’s not a ‘bubblegum broad’.”

         Chris shook his head. He knew what the term meant. Tastes great for the first few bites but once the flavors gone you gotta spit her out.

         “So you serious about this girl?” Chris said.

         “I don’t know.” He looked down his face red. He turned back to Chris, a new light in his green eyes like the shine of the sun. “I haven’t felt this way about a girl since before Denise.”

         Chris shook his head. For a long time Johnny had been in court with his wife Denise. She got the better of the divorce. The house, his Mercedes and his son Jonah. It was why he was here doing this kind of work. Chris felt sympathetic for his partner, but the fact was he was in a similar situation, all though a part of him held onto the far off notion that his marriage to Michelle, his wife of 8 years was salvageable.

         “I’m happy for ya man.”

         “I got even better news.” Johnny pulled out a small photo. It’s of a young boy in a blue baseball uniform and a smile that is missing the two front teeth.

         “This Johnny Jr?”

         Johnny laughs. “Ya, this is my boy Jonah. I get him all next week with him. It’s going to be the best week. I’m going to give him everything I can. Take him to the game. Buy him a new glove, play ball with him til’ the sun sets. It’s going to be great.” He said, his smile deep and hopeful.

         “That’s great.” Chris shook his head. This was Johnny at his most human. When speaking of his son he was calm and congenial. His son was the only beacon in the darkness that was his life.

              “Hey Johnny, you seen Stevie?”

         Johnny’s face switched from a dream world to reality in an instant. “Didn’t he say he was going over to the bar to take a piss and have a drink?”

         “Ya, that was half-an hour ago.” They throw their coffees aside and make their way across the parking lot and up to the bar that Stevie had entered. “He’s probably bitching over the game still.”

         The bar was packed. It was an obvious ringer for a biker joint with rebel flags, bandannas and what have you. Metallica blared on the juke box as they entered. Chris could feel the stares from many tattooed and goatee faced bikers.

         “Excuse me.” He asked the bartender, a butch looking broad muscular arms and a blue denim jacket. “I’m looking for my friend. He’s an Italian dressed in a dark gray, bluish suit.”

         She shook her head dismissively.

         Chris turned and tapped Johnny on the shoulder. “I’m going to check the bathroom. Wait here.”

         Chris walked around a cluster of tables and into a darkened section of the bar that has the moniker of bathroom on the wall. He walked in the Male bathroom. The place was pretty beat up. There was a cluster of mirrors. Many were missing and only the dark stucco glue outlined in a rectangle remained of many. “Stevie?” He searched a few opened stalls. A biker taking a piss walked past him and out of the restroom. He found nothing but heard murmurs from one of the closed stalls. “Stevie?” He said finding the stall. He knocked and looked beneath the stall door and saw a figure hunched by the toilet. Immediately Chris kicked open the door. Stevie was on the floor, the bowl of the toilet clutched in his arms.

         “What the fuck?” Chris walked into the stall and saw the toilet full of milky junks of vomit. It smelt like Jack Daniels and blood. He leaned down and looked Stevie over. “What are you doing Stevie?”

         Stevie’s eyes were lost in a cloud of haze. His face was battered and his nose was covered with crimson. His breath was blast of hot Jack Daniels and the sour stench of blood.

         “Look at me.” Chris gave him a subtle slap.

         Stevie stood a little getting his sense back. Chris helped him stand back to his feet supporting him.

         “I lost.” Stevie said, a quivering expression of sadness on his face.

         “What are you talking about? Who did this to you?”

         “The game. I bet, I bet wrong.”

         “So you win some and you lose. Life goes on.” Chris got some wet paper towels and wiped Stevie’s face.

         “This isn’t that simple.”

         Chris’s heart fell. “What did you do?” Something was wrong. He had to know before he tried to carry the bloodied Italian out in front of about thirty bikers.

         “I bet some biker I could take him in a game of pool.”

         “How much?”

         “Five hundred dollars. I thought it was easy money.”

         “Stevie you stupid fuck!” Chris walked away putting a hand on his head. “You already lost a grand on the Bears and you play some random biker for five hundred dollars?”

         “I had it Chris. This game was mine. It was easy money.” His lower lip quivered. “I didn’t want to pay. I was drunk and pissed. He gave me a pretty bad beatdown with a couple of his friends.” Stevie turned away.

                Chris picked him up. “Let’s get out of her. I’ll drop you at your house.”

                “What am I going to tell Sheila?”

                “We’ll worry about that later.”

                Stevie gave a groggy head shake.

                They met Johnny back at the entrance after a cadre of leather clad biker’s gave them stone-faced smiles of contempt. “What the fuck happened to him?” Johnny practically shouted the words. He lifted Stevie’s face up by the mouth and scanned his eyes. “Who did this?”

         Johnny turned to Chris who’s already scanning the bar. He saw a group of bikers near the tables with cues in hand staring. They laughed with no attempt to conceal their pleasure.

         “Hold him.” Chris handed Stevie over. He looked at his partner with a fire in his amber eyes.

         “Chris don’t be stupid.”

          Chris smiled, “don’t worry. Go outside to the car.”

                Johnny picked up the beaten Stevie and walks outside. Chris went over to the bar and took a seat. "Excuse me." The muscle clad bartender turned her attention to him. "My friend and I are on a business trip and need change for the weekend." He stuck out a ten dollar bill with a charming smile. "Can I have a roll of quarters."

                The bartender shook her head. "Sure." She took the ten popped open a nearby register and handed Chris a roll of quarters.

                "Thank you." He turned the stool back around to the tables and put the roll in his coat pocket. The four bikers lost interest in him and went back to playing pool. He stood up from the stool and walked over to them nonchalantly.

         A heavy set biker with a cut off denim jacket saw him first. The biker looked Mexican with a thick goatee outfitted by a large head. His arms were big, not muscular but wide with cement-like bulk and littered with skulls and flames. He tapped another biker on the shoulder. The biker in the center turned to Chris.

              "Something you need?" His voice was heavy. He was white with a bald head and deep blue eyes. He's small compared to the others but his presence conveys his power as the alpha.

              "You played a pool game with my friend. He tells me you hustled him and took 500 dollars. I don't believe that."

              The biker in the center took a few steps toward him getting right into his face. "Why's that?"

              "You look like a nice guy. Someone who realizes that hustling others out of money over a pool game isn't honorable. Someone who realizes that jumping one drunk italian over a few dollars isn't necessary."

              The biker shook his head. "You're right." He smiled. "I wouldn't do any of that. Now if that’s all you want to know then you can go." His face contorted in a grimace like a bulldog on guard.

              "Just give me the 500 and you can go on with your game."

              "'Give' you? you want me to 'give' you 500 dollars?" He turned back to his friend. "Well I must look like a fucking charity to you?"

              Chris smiled and the glare of power entered his eyes.

              For a second the biker was taken back. He regained his composure. "Boy's light this pussy up!" He stepped back as the other three bikers rushed forward.

            Chris lunged forward coming with an outside left hook that knocked the Mexican biker down. The other two came, already swinging wide like enraged gorillas. Chris was quick, calm like a wolf above the hounds. He backed up into a small section of the bar, forcing the bikers to come at him one at a time. His right cross shot out like a snake striking a young looking biker with sleeved arms. The young biker fell to his knees, a glossed look of confusion in his eyes like someone just hijacked his brain and left him like a puppet with his strings cut. A fat biker, around 400 pounds suddenly stopped. He had his hands up but Chris could see the fear in his eyes. The fat biker yelled, came forward, Chris sidestepped and grabbed the biker's bighead with one hand and hammered the biker's face with his other. The fat biker fell. The white biker with the shaved head looked shocked. Without another word he took five hundred dollars from his pocket and handed it to Chris. In exchange, Chris handed him the roll of quarters, now covered in blood that had made such a good fist pack. An even trade.

            "I wish you were that nice guy." He said
             
              “He’s been drinking all day.” Chris reached into Stevie’s coat and brought out a small silver flask. As they walked out he threw it in a trash can. Chris took the keys from Stevie’s pocket and sat down in the driver’s seat while Johnny worked the somewhat tedious task of putting Stevie in the front passenger seat. It wasn’t easy for Johnny as Stevie was passed out and had a good 50 pounds and 4 inches on Johnny but he did it buckling Stevie in after 10 minutes of hassle.

              Johnny stared at Chris noticing one of his right knuckles is torn open and bleeding. “Chris what happened in there?” Johnny opened the backdoor and jumped into the backseat still looking at his partner.

              Chris shook his head starting the Lincoln with a roar. He reached in his coat pocket and withdrew the stack of folded twenties and handed them to Johnny over his shoulder. Without another word Johnny took the money and Chris sped off.

              The ride to Stevie’s house was short but eventful. Three times they had to stop and let Stevie throw up, once in the middle of an intersection and to the dismay of other driver’s. When they got to Stevie’s—a small apartment in a middle class neighborhood—Johnny walked him up the steps rang the doorbell and delivered the inebriated Stevie to an angry wife. He told her that they had a little celebration for Johnny’s niece’s first Communion. She shook her head, took Stevie and closed the door.

         Chris started up the Lincoln as Johnny took the front passenger seat in the luxury sedan.

                "Chris, we have to talk." Johnny looked out the window. The bright orange street lights are few and far between, like surviving angels whose fading light can only hold back the darkness.

          Chris kept it at a steady 35.

           “I’ve known you for about a year. You seem like a good guy.” Johnny said and shook his head. “I always thought I could read people so well, but I got you wrong.”

           Chris let a smile come to his face. “Johnny, what are saying? You think I’m not a good guy?”

                  “That’s not it. Tonight in the bar I saw something in your eyes. A look I’d seen before but a look I never thought I’d see on your face. You see Chris I’m not an idiot. I grew up in South Boston. I’ve been fighting since I was 6.” Johnny stopped for a second. “If you’ve got some stuff to tell me, I want to let you know I’m as quiet as a priest.”

           Chris remained impassive. He didn’t answer for a minute. He signaled for a left turn and examined his bloodied knuckle. “I hurt a lot of people." He said. "I even killed a few people for almost nothing. If that's the stuff you wanted to fucking hear I hope your satisfied.” He said looking at Johnny with the same coldness in his eyes.

           Johnny shook his head.

           Chris dropped Johnny off at his apartment. Before speeding off Johnny spoke again. “Chris, I'm sorry man. I didn't mean to bring old shit up. It was a stupid move on my part.”

           Chris shook his head and extended his hand, "Don't worry about it." They shook and clutched each other hands firmly. Johnny turned away and walked to his apartment. Chris stayed and listened to the subtle rumbling of the parked Lincoln. He rested his arm on the open driver side window. He noticed a nearby by street light flicker with a remaining tinge of light and go out. He put the Lincoln into drive and sped off to his apartment. 
             


                  Chris didn't find much sleep on that night. He called his wife three times and each time he got the answering machine. It had been like that for about two months now; it was like she completely cut him off. The last time he called and she didn't answer he through the phone against the wall. He stared at the digital clock on his bedside dresser through the darkness of his apartment. 12:05am he whispered and took a deep breath.

                  Why was she doing this? Hadn't I been a good husband? I took care of her and I took care of our son... His mind paused not wanting to walk down that path in his memories. He got up and went to his dresser and found the familiar orange prescription bottle lying next to his work papers. He grabbed the bottle popped open the top and swallowed five 1000mg Vicodin pills. He sat back on his bed clicked on the bedside lamp which offered a small cone of light. He opened a lower drawer on the bedside dresser and pulled out an envelope. He opened the worn label, pulled out a couple dozen pictures. He sifted through them, feeling the loving touch of the pills caressing his brain. He stopped sifting and pulled out one of the pictures in particular. It was a photo of him and his dad. He must've only been fifteen and it must've been the trip to Lake Tahoe as rows of palm trees stretched out in the background. His dad looked so happy and so alive like a man firmly embraced in life. A man completely unaware that two years later he would be shot dead in his own neighborhood. "I miss you dad." He smiled, and laid back on his bed and closed his eyes.

                The faces came like a tidal wave. I see the car again, and my reflection on the side window barely lit by the overhead street lights. I feel the cold from the October night in Anaheim and the numb chewing feeling on my muscles. The gun's in my hand; they had done their work, now it was time for me to finish it. Another half dead black man and another life-- this was the moment when it all became so lucid. I couldn’t be what Haze was. But with the 9 millimeter clutched in my hand and the man already beaten and near death, a squeeze of the trigger to the left temple would make me better than Haze. I could end it with the quick mercy of God, the man would be there one moment half conscious from the work of an aluminum baseball bat and be gone with a ‘click’. That wouldn’t be like Haze. Haze wouldn’t do it quick. He wouldn’t even use the gun. He would use a ratchet as a fist pack and pound the man’s head till it split open like a watermelon. Haze would love every second with that blank stare in his dead left eye. You’re dead Charlie. Fourth Grade little league. Learning to surf at Sol Beach. Homecoming victory for the varsity football team. None of that meant anything. Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck it. Pull the fucking trigger and kill the beaten son of a bitch so Haze can't cut off his ear or break anymore of his ribs with that newly purchased aluminum bat from the local Wal-Mart. The gun sounds off with a quick ‘pat’ and the man falls over, the blood dripping from his lips. I feel it in my gut. The feeling that Haze told me is just the jitters, the PTPPO—Pre Trigger Pull Puss Out. I look and see Haze’s eyes fill with elation-- even the scarred left one twinkles. You're dead Charlie.

         “Good job.” He says.

         I look at Haze and smile under my white mask trying not to throw up.