Frank Zafiro - Under a Raging Moon

Of course, Peter saw some of the evils, too. Six years in this country and this was the best job he had been able to get so far. It paid just above minimum wage, with a few extra cents an hour for working the evening shift. Peter got off at eleven, in time to meet Olga at the bus stop and ride home. She worked cleaning rooms at a local motel.

Crime. That was the biggest difference he noticed between the two countries. Not language, philosophy, or government. Crime. In Minsk, crime existed but as a subtle presence, if not outright rare. KGB and local police made sure of that. Penalties were severe. People still disappeared, even as of six years ago. Here in America, the justice system seemed almost worthless. People shoplifted all the time from the store where he worked, or did gas drive-offs, and nothing happened. Nothing could be done. He felt sorry for the police, who had to deal with the same criminals again and again. Even if they caught them, the judges set them free. It was shameful. America was wealthy, but she had too much freedom.

Peter cleaned the counters around the register for the fifteenth or twentieth time that night. He took pride in his work. He hoped the store manager, a gaunt man with a red nose that reminded Peter of his Uncle Ivan, would notice and promote him to night manager. They could use the money.

He considered going to the supply closet to get the broom and sweep the floor when a customer entered. The man appeared shaken. Peter wondered if he had been involved in a car accident or something. Even though it was against the rules, he allowed people to use the business telephone for such things.

The customer’s long black hair fluttered in the artificial breeze created by the closing door.

Peter started to smile a greeting, when the man shoved a dark gun in his face, touching him on the end of the nose. Peter’s hands flew up instinctively.

“Give me the fucking money in the register. Now!”

Not taking his eyes off the man’s face, his fingers fumbled with the register. The drawer slid open.

“All of it, in a bag. Let’s go.”

What a terrible scar, Peter thought absently, shoving bills into a plastic bag. Flat eyes, like those of a shark, peered out from beneath thick eyebrows. The lids beneath them twitched rapidly.

Cold realization knotted his gut.

This man wants to kill me.

“The money, asshole. Let’s go!” The robber pressed the gun against his forehead.

It was then Peter remembered something from the newspaper. This is Scarface . He’d robbed almost a dozen stores.

Peter’s heart raced and his thoughts turned dark. Is he going to shoot me now? I can’t afford a bed at the hospital .

The man snatched the bag from his hand. He glared at Peter with the eyes of a predator. Peter wanted to close his eyes and pray, but he couldn’t move.

I have come all the way from Russia to die in River City, Washington. How tragic. Dosteovsky would appreciate the irony.

The man removed the barrel of the gun from Peter’s forehead and pressed it roughly against his chin. A single, stoic tear slid down Peter’s face as he waited. He now had the presence of mind to ask God silently to care for Olga and Paul.

The man paused half a breath, then pushed the barrel into Peter’s chin again. He could see the man’s finger twitch as it pressed against the trigger. He repeated his prayer quickly, hoping that God would hear it before he was killed.

Please, God. Care for my wife and child. Please, God-

In a rush, the man lowered the gun and ran from the store. The bell dinged to signal his parting.

Peter stood stock-still, wondering that he was alive and thanking God over and over again. He looked at the clock. 11:10 PM. Every moment from now on was a gift from God.

His gift was already two minutes old when he thought to push the robbery alarm button located under the register drawer.

2310 hours

Threes and sevens. Coffee breaks and meal breaks in police radio speak. Some days you lived for them.

Katie MacLeod sat with Matt Westboard, gingerly picking at her sub sandwich. Westboard devoured half of his in two large bites. Their dinner so far had been a quiet one, radio chatter at a minimum on a slow graveyard shift. She commented on that.

Westboard nodded as he took a long sip on his soda.

“Nothing like last week,” she said. “Scarface. And Elliot.”

He continued to nod and sip.

Jesus, Katie thought. Is he ever going to breathe? She picked at an olive and popped it in her mouth.

With a sigh, Westboard came up for air. “That call was intense. That idiot had serious problems with women.”

“Yeah. Especially me.” Katie tried to be casual. “I thought I was going to have to shoot him.”

“Might’ve had to,” Westboard agreed. “He was all jacked up. Meth would be my bet. You found some on him, right?”

Katie nodded.

“You should have seen the girlfriend. He stabbed her three times.” Westboard pointed at his own body, pantomiming the injuries. “Once in the arm and twice in the belly. She had some defensive wounds, too, on her hands.”

“I never did figure out what the fight was about,” Katie said.

“Who knows?” Westboard said with a shrug. “You know what she told me on the way to the hospital?”

“No. What?”

“That he didn’t do it. She came up with some crazy story about a burglar.” He shook his head in disgust and took another long draught of his soda.

Katie frowned. Stupid woman . Then she asked, “Did you think you were going to have to shoot?”

Westboard met her eyes. She wondered if he could sense her inner doubt.

“It was a fifty-fifty chance,” he said. “Either he had a problem with anybody there or he had a problem with you in particular. Given his attitude about women and the names he was calling you, I kinda figured he might listen to me.”

“What if he hadn’t?”

Westboard smiled, but kept his eyes on hers. He formed a gun with his thumb and forefinger and pointed it at her. “Little red dot.” He dropped his thumb like a hammer. “Bang. Big red dot.”

Katie gave him a small smile, but his antics didn’t ease her doubt.

Westboard took a huge bite of his sub sandwich. “Yu evah heah abow Huk?” he asked with his mouth full.

“What?!”

Westboard grinned while he chewed. She recognized his poor table manners were an act intended to lighten her mood.

He swallowed. “I said, did you ever hear about the guy they called Hulk?”

“No, not really. Wasn’t he some guy that quit a year or so before I was hired?”

“Yeah. His name was Joe Grushko. Everyone called him Hulk because he went about six-four and easily two-fifty. Solid muscle. He still holds the bench-press record at the station gym. Anyway, you ever hear why he quit?”

Katie shook her head, not really interested. She picked absently at a piece of shredded lettuce.

Westboard went on. “Hulk was not afraid of anything that I could see. Getting into a fight around him was like being front row at a WWF bout. Guys and furniture flying everywhere. ” He waved his arms for emphasis. “So one night, he goes on a suicidal with a gun call. They get to the house and there is this little five-foot, ninety-pound woman waving a Beretta nine-em-em around. Hulk had a dead drop on her when she pointed the gun at him, but he didn’t fire. He said later that he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t shoot a woman, even though she had a gun.”

“What happened?” Katie asked, her interest piqued.

“She capped off a round at him and missed. He still didn’t return fire. You know Tom Chisolm, right?”