W. Griffin: The Vigilantes

Hell, then again, all I really have to do is make a lot of noise kicking over the motorcycle.

I’ll bet that bastard Jay-Cee comes flying outside.

When he reached the door and had put the canteen on the sidewalk beside it, he decided, just for the hell of it, to try the doorknob.

With his right hand holding his Glock, he carefully grabbed the knob with his left hand and slowly started to turn it.

It was unlocked.

Why am I not surprised? Jay-Cee’s a dumbass.

The heavy metal door swung outward with a squeak of its hinges.

And then Curtis realized why it had been unlocked: It was a common door for the multiple individual offices within the building.

He now stood in an empty corridor, a short and very narrow one, with the inner door to Gartner’s office immediately to his left, a flight of well-worn wooden stairs leading to the offices on the upper floors a little farther down on the right, and, at the end of the corridor, an exit door to the alleyway.

Curtis decided to press his luck and turn the dirty tin knob on Gartner’s interior door to see if just maybe JC might have left it unlocked, too. As he reached for the knob, he heard someone directly on the other side of the door, then saw the knob turn. He barely had time to flatten himself against the wall by the door hinges before the door flew open toward him, blocking his view.

Then came the sound of feet moving quickly, then the exterior door squeaking open and closed.

Curtis didn’t see who had gone outside. But now he leaned over to peer through the gap between the door edge and the frame into Gartner’s office.

It was mostly dark except for the glow of the television-out of Curtis’s field of view, but he could hear its sound, which seemed to be a lot of heavy breathing with rock music blaring in the background-and a single short lamp on what he guessed to be Gartner’s desk.

There were two other desks, smaller ones, their tops not nearly as messy, though one had the crumpled greasy Chinese takeout bags on it. Against a far wall stood a pair of old six-foot-long folding tables. They sagged at the center under the weight of loose fat file folders and white cardboard storage boxes. Under the tables, and all along the walls, were books and more stacks of file folders and piles of legal-size papers. And there was trash, or what could have been more legal papers, littering the worn, dirty industrial carpeting.

Curtis could see Gartner behind the desk-a big wooden one piled ridiculously high with papers-standing bent over at the waist with his face close to the desktop. He held something to his face and slowly pivoted his head from left to right while inhaling deeply.

Then he suddenly stood erect and, rubbing his nose, looked wide-eyed at the open office door, then spun on his heels and looked at the cracked plate-glass window.

After a second, apparently satisfied, Gartner then bent back over the desk again.

Will Curtis carefully stepped to the left so he could peer around the far edge of the open door. He saw that the heavy metal door to the street was closed. He started to move toward it to lock its deadbolts. But then he thought that might reveal him to Gartner, if only for a second or two, which would ruin the element of surprise.

Fuck it. Get it over with…

Will Curtis quickly moved around the open door and, gun up and ready, entered Danny Gartner’s office. As he scanned the interior-Gartner was alone-he pulled the door closed behind him. This time, he did throw the lock on the door.

Before Curtis could say anything, Gartner, his face still close to the desk, casually said, “You find it?”

When Gartner looked up for a response, his eyes became huge again. He dropped what he had in his hand and staggered two steps backward, almost tripping over his own feet.

“What the hell?” Danny Gartner asked, his voice almost a squeak. “Who-”

“Shut the fuck up,” Will Curtis said calmly but forcefully, aiming at him with the Glock.

“Who-” Gartner repeated.

“I said shut the fuck up!”

Curtis glanced at the desktop. He saw the black nylon bag JC had brought. It was open, and held a plastic sandwich bag, not quite a quarter full, of what looked like ground-up chalk. Beside that on the desktop were two lines-actually, a line and a half left-of the powder, and a stub of a thin plastic straw.

Coke? Maybe meth?

Goddamn drugs.

He glanced around the room. He now had a clear view of the TV, and the pulsing lights were of a very raw pornographic scene. It was hard-core-nothing but writhing naked women and close-up shots of the sex toys probing their genitalia filled the flat screen.

Sick sonsofbitches! he thought as he walked over to the TV.

There’s no end to their depravity!

He hit the ON-OFF switch and the room got darker.

Curtis looked back at Gartner, then motioned quickly with the pistol. “Step out here in front of the desk.”

Gartner didn’t move. Curtis saw his eyes glance out the plate-glass window.

“Where’d JC go?” Curtis asked.

It was clear by Gartner’s expression that he was surprised the intruder knew JC’s name. Then that expression changed to one of found opportunity.

Gartner, his tone more controlled, said, “You’re after JC? I can-”

“Damn it! Just answer the question.” He motioned more aggressively with the pistol. “And get your ass over here, slowly.”

Staring at the Glock, Gartner began moving as told. When he was in the middle of the floor, Curtis motioned again with the gun and said, “Now, on your knees.”

As Gartner complied, Curtis looked around the room quickly. Over on one of the sagging folding tables was a roll of three-inch-wide clear packing tape. He walked over and picked it up, then went back to Gartner.

“Hands behind your back,” Curtis said, and when Gartner had complied, Curtis wrapped his wrists tightly together with the tape. He pulled a folding knife from his pocket and cut the tape roll free. Then he pushed Gartner hard between the shoulder blades so that he fell forward and smacked his face on the dirty carpeting.

“Shit!” Gartner said. “What’d you do that for?”

Curtis didn’t reply. He put his right knee in the small of Gartner’s back- and on top of the taped wrists-then quickly wrapped Gartner’s ankles with the tape.

The locked doorknob rattled, followed by a knock.

“Dan!” JC’s muffled voice called. “What’s up?”

Will Curtis put the muzzle of the pistol against Gartner’s left temple. “Don’t say a word.”

He looked at Gartner’s eyes, then decided he didn’t trust him to do as ordered. He ran the tape through Gartner’s open mouth and wrapped it twice around his head.

As Curtis stood and went to the door, JC began banging on it.

“Dan! You okay in there?” JC called.

At the door, Curtis held his pistol at the point where he expected to find JC’s head. Then he reached for the knob and unlocked it.

At the sound of the click, the knob spun and the door was yanked open.

JC stood there, an envelope in his right hand and-surprising Curtis-the green plastic canteen in his left. He froze as he saw he was looking at the muzzle of a big-bore pistol.

And, judging how his facial expression changed, he recognized the angry man who was aiming the weapon between his eyes.

“Ahhh,” JC said, dropping the envelope and canteen, and holding up his hands, palms out.

Curtis then noticed some kind of movement in JC’s midsection. When he glanced down, he saw that the crotch of JC’s blue jeans was darkening and the stain was quickly spreading, moving mostly down the inside of the right leg of his pants.

Curtis snorted.

Not so smug now, huh?

Not so tough and cocky, either.