Victor Methos - Arsonist

“How you been, Juan? You know, it’s funny, I’m sittin’ there today just hard at work and I realize, you know what? I haven’t heard from my good pal Juan in almost three weeks . Imagine that, man. I ain’t heard from you in three weeks.”

“Yo I been sick, man. I just got back out here on dees corners man.”

“Yeah? ‘Cause I drove by here couple days ago and saw you hangin’ out with your faggot friend over there.”

“Yeah, I been back for a few but I been outta the game for a minute.”

Gunn glanced around. “Where’s my fuckin’ money, Juan?”

“I told you man, I been outta the game. I ain’t got no money.”

“Really? You ain’t got no money, huh?” Gunn took a few steps toward him and Juan jumped back. “You old school, Juan? Right? You always talkin’ about how life was like back in the day. I mean you’re only like, what? Thirty-five? But since all you wet-back gangsters die out here at twenty that’s pretty old to still be in the game, right?”

Gunn jumped at him and grabbed him by the throat. He brought him near so that he could smell his breath and look into his eyes.

“Here’s a rule you can fuckin’ remember: this is my corner. This ain’t your corner; it ain’t the LHG’s corner. This is my corner and I call the fuckin’ shots. Now you pay me what you owe me or we got a big problem, you and me, and maybe that butt-buddy of yours over there gets a little promotion ‘cause his boss is missin’ in action.”

“I’ll get you the money, man. I ain’t playin’. I’ll get it to you. I need some time, though, man. I just got back in the game, man. I wasn’t lyin’.”

“You got three days to get me three weeks’ worth of payments.”

“Three days? Man, I can’t do that. I can’t sell fast enough, man.”

“Well then you better rob a fuckin’ truck or take out a loan or something ‘cause either my money or your balls are goin’ home with me in three days.”

“All right, man, all right. I’ll find it. I’ll find it.”

Gunn let him go. “See, I knew you were reasonable. That’s why I like you, Juan. Reasonable.”

As Gunn got back into his car, he saw Juan go and pick up his firearm from near the garbage. He stared at him with venom, but just quietly tucked the gun into his pants and went back to work.

It was nearly six in the evening when Lieutenant Daniel Childs walked into Jonathan Stanton’s office and leaned against the doorframe. He had found conversations with his detectives went a lot faster and saved him more time when he didn’t sit down or come in.

Stanton sat at his desk, busy at work on his computer. Childs watched him a long time. He was researching something about homosexual sadists; a study that, from what Childs could tell, was conducted almost fifty years ago.

“You’re the only detective I know that researches the way you research.”

“Most crimes are solved by snitching. The type I specialize in aren’t. Some of the time they don’t even know they’re doing it.” He turned and faced him, putting his feet up on the desk. “Gotta take every advantage I have.”

Childs took a few steps in the room so he could read the screen. “Schizo-Affective Disorders in Homosexual Psychopathy. I prefer Sports Illustrated myself.”

“This study was conducted in the sixties and it’s spooky how accurate they are. These people, like the one I think we’re looking for in Cisneros, are incapable of happiness. They want to impose their own misery on everybody else. This guy we’re after, he has a family. I bet to everyone in the community they seem like the perfect family but at home he’s probably a Vlad Dracula. I wouldn’t be surprised if he tortures his children as a form of discipline.”

“You one dark mutherfucker, Jon. You need to bowl or play tennis or whatever white people do to clear your head.”

“I’m all right.”

“How’s the dating situation goin’?”

“I’m okay, really, Danny, you don’t need to worry about me. I was actually just debating whether to call somebody I met for a date.”

“Oh yeah?” Childs said, sitting down. “Who is she?”

“She’s the arson investigator we hired.”

“Well call her.”

“Maybe later.”

“No, no, this is a direct order, man. Call her right now while I listen and ask her to dinner and a movie or whatever the hell Mormons do for fun. Ice cream, whatever.”

“I really don’t think-”

“I ain’t kiddin’. Direct order. Come on, call her.”

“All right, fine. Hang on.” He pulled out his phone and pulled her up in his contacts.

“Ew, she in your contacts already? This is serious.”

Stanton smiled as the phone rang. Emma answered on the third ring.

“This is Emma.”

“Hey, Emma, it’s Jon. Stanton. From the SDPD. We worked-”

“Of course I remember you, Jon. What’s up?”

“Hey, um, I was just wondering if-”

“You’re probably calling about the samples. They’re not done yet. The labs that I trust take about-”

“No I wasn’t calling about that. I was calling about something else. Um.” He looked to Childs, who made a motion of sticking his finger in a hole. Stanton had to suppress a laugh. “I was just wondering if, um, you’d like to grab dinner some time? With me. Grab dinner with me.”

“Oh, well…yeah, why not?”

“Okay, how about Friday.”

“Friday’s no good. I got a symposium on ion-selective electrodes.”

Childs whispered, “Oh, man, beaten out by an electrode.”

“Well,” Stanton said, “how about Saturday?”

“Let me check…yeah, that should be fine. Should I come pick you up? Or, well, I don’t know. Do you want to come pick me up?”

“Sure. Just text me your address and I’ll swing by around seven.”

“Sounds good. See you then.”

“See you then.”

Childs busted up laughing. “Oh, man. Nothing better than two nerds trying to flirt.”

“She’s not one of your strippers, that’s for sure.”

“My strippers are top-quality American beef, Brother Stanton. You should try one sometime. Might loosen you up a bit and get you to stop thinking about homosexual schizophrenic-whatevers torturing their kids.” He stood up. “Much respect, Jon. That took balls, I know.”

“Thanks.”

As Childs left, Stanton looked at his phone. He calendared his date using Siri, an iPhone personal assistant application, and smiled as he saw it appear on his calendar.

Jesse Brichard finished his shift and found his sedan in the airport parking lot. He sat in the car for a moment and then took out the silver flask that was in the glove compartment and threw back a few drinks, spilling some drops on his pilot’s uniform.

He remembered why he’d wanted to be a pilot: the idea of freedom. The bastards could take your house and car, your money…but they couldn’t take the sky from you. His father had been a pilot and his father before him. It was a family tradition. But with each successive generation the pay and benefits shrunk to the point that he now worked a second full-time job just to support his family. It’d gotten so he could make more managing a fast-food restaurant than he could making sure three hundred people landed safely and got home to their families. Ah, to hell with it, he thought. Maybe they would just replace him outright with robots?

He started the car and pulled away and before long was on Interstate 5 heading home to his family in Claremont. The air was warm as evening was falling and it was a salty ocean air that sat well on his tongue. He turned on the oldies station and Moody Blues’ Nights in White Satin was playing.